Al and Artie do Blackpool
by ElapsingSpiral
Summary: Novella Length and complete. It’s time for Arthur’s annual holiday, only money is a tad short: Blackpool it is then. Still, if Arthur’s going to England’s Capital City for Tackiness, he’s taking somebody else down with him. Poor Alfred. USUK
1. Chapter 1

So, a quick explanation for those not familiar with Blackpool: simply, Blackpool is a seaside holiday resort town on the North-West coast of England, famous for its "Tower" and "Illuminations". As a general rule, I have always loved quiet, rural, idyllic looking towns. Blackpool, however, breaks that rule completely: I love the place. It's tacky, it would gladly trick you out of your last bit of cash and it looks more than a little worn around the edges, but I love it _for_ its cheesiness and _for_ the fact that it refuses to change or pull any punches, being as loud and brash as it possibly can be. It's a tiny bit like Arthur himself in that respect. What better then, I thought, to set a fic in Blackpool? I hope I do the town and the pairing justice. Also, apologies to anyone from Blackpool: I mean no harm. I am, after all, Blackpool's number one fan.

I've included footnotes and a guide to any English/Arthur!Slang used at the end of each chapter for completeness' sake. Feel free to give them a look if you wish: the fic should be relatively understandable without, however.

Enjoy!

**Al and Artie do Blackpool - Chapter 1**

**Holiday Preparations and 9am to 1.41pm, Wednesday**

Preliminaries

"We're a little strapped for cash this year, Mr Kirkland, so you may want to go for something a little simpler, holiday-wise," the well-meaning, well-educated secretary told him over the phone. Her voice had hardly wavered in its modulated and capable tone during the course of their conversation, Arthur realised with some disconcertion.

"I understand; I'll just keep it to the one week in Greece then, I think."

A loaded pause crackled down the line.

"I assume that'll be alright?"

"If it's possible, simpler still; we really would appreciate it."

Arthur looked down to find that he had begun to choke the phone cord with his other hand, twisting all of the loops out of shape, "So when you say we're a bit strapped, you mean-"

"I mean that it's been an awfully long time since you've been to Blackpool, hasn't it sir?"

*

After having taken down and negotiated a few key details, Arthur placed the phone back on the hook and stood staring down at the memo pad, now covered in doodles, a few dates and prices. At the centre of this rather hectic mess was a single word, surrounded by asterisks and thunderbolts, gone over again and again with biro so that it no doubt left a mark on all the pages below it:

"BOLLOCKS"

Well, if war had taught him anything it was this: if he was going down, he was taking someone else down with him.

Arthur was scarcely able to contain his snicker as he rang up Alfred later that afternoon.

"Blackpool?" the man said, frowning if his tone was any guide, "I've never heard of it. Are you _sure_ it's your Las Vegas?"

"Oh, definitely," Arthur said, fingers crossed.

_**9am, London**_

And that had been that. The one benefit of an English holiday was how quickly he was able to arrange everything. Within the week he'd booked the room in a sea-front B&B for a few weeks' time and had filled up one car with petrol, ready. The one downside was that having Alfred over for his holiday meant having to sacrifice a few days' stay (if being saved another two days in Blackpool was indeed a downside).

He met Alfred at his hotel in London the day after his flight, mostly recovered from his jet lag, and let the man shove his suitcase into the boot of his car.

"There is no way that you didn't take the Mini on purpose."

"It's very economical. I've been warned: I need to tighten my purse-strings. If you're that concerned about bringing suitcase upon suitcase, you should have had your Hummer bloody ferried over."

At last, with a sigh, he got out and helped Alfred to ram an awkward corner of the canvas suitcase firmly into the boot and then, together, they slammed the boot-lid into place, sending the whole car bouncing on its suspension. Afterwards, Alfred turned to Arthur with a lopsided smile.

"It's great to see you, too."

With evident disgruntlement, Arthur gave the man a pat on the upper arm, "You as well. Now get in. We've got a way to travel."

_**12.23pm, the English countryside**_

"I spy with my little eye, something beginning with... y," Alfred yawned.

"Y. Hm," Arthur went through the contents of his car in his mind, all the while preparing himself to take advantage of the next stretch of clear, straight country road in order to pass a ridiculously slow caravan, "Y." He had mints, an A to Z, he was fairly sure there was a beer can wedged under the passenger seat and there were several CDs of varying quality in the door pocket on Alfred's side.

"Beginning with y? Are you sure about that?"

"Give up?"

"I guess."

"Y. For "You should buy your passengers a goddamn in-car DVD player." Who plays I Spy?" Alfred looked despairingly out the window, as though half-tempted to simply tuck and roll, "Are we nearly there?"

"Christ. Don't start that. Yes, as a matter of fact we are."

"Good."

A silence settled over the pair.

"Want to listen to some more ABBA?"

"Not for a million years."

The ridiculously windy country road seemed to stretch out that little bit further before them. Arthur sighed and did the one thing that remained in his power: he scowled at the caravan, thinking bad thoughts.

_**1.27pm, Blackpool**_

They arrived in Blackpool after noon. With relief, Arthur parked up in front of the bed and breakfast (having driven up and down the street multiple times before Alfred had grabbed the wheel to steer him in to the kerb with a yell of "It's that one. If you drive past again I'll-!"); he stepped out of the Mini and stretched his cramping legs. On the opposite side of the car, Alfred clambered out, looking emotionally, as opposed to physically, drained.

Looking up at the Victoriana style terraced house with net curtains and a painted, ornamental well in its small front garden, Alfred found his voice and regained his natural energy.

"This is your Las Vegas."

"Well, I said sort of."

Alfred cast a look up and down the wide road on which the house stood. It had to be the main stretch, with an old fashioned tram line cutting up the middle. Across on the other pavement, he could make out two piers jutting out into the sea, cluttered with what looked like rides and entertainment.

"Let me give you a quick run-down of what's what," Arthur said, clearly misinterpreting Alfred's look of ire for one of curiosity (possibly on purpose). He pointed to their left, down past yet more hotels and bed and breakfasts, "That way there's the Pleasure Beach; it's an amusement park with a rollercoaster. That pier across from it," again he jabbed a finger, "Is South Pier: that's mainly for young people, lots of rides and the like," he turned now in the opposite direction, "All of this is the promenade obviously, since it looks out onto the beach-"

"Is that a donkey?"

"Those are donkeys, for donkey rides, of course - don't interrupt. That's Central Pier, a bit like South Pier but bigger, beyond that is North Pier, which you can't really see from here. That one's old fashioned and a lot quieter, so you'll hate it," he said, clearly unable to resist himself, "If we walk up that way, towards Central and North, we're walking what's known as the "Golden Mile". Along the Golden Mile there's amusement arcades and fast food places and souvenirs shops. And, of course, the one and only Blackpool Tower."

"So where are the casinos?"

"Ah, well, the funding fell through for the super casino. There's a few smaller casinos," he gestured left and right, "They have high payout slot machines in some of the arcades too," Arthur said briskly.

"How high are we talking?"

"Forty or fifty quid, perhaps."

"And your holiday lights are still up because?"

"Holiday-Oh, those?" Arthur looked up at the strings and strings of coloured and picture-shaped lights, currently switched off, that festooned the street for as far as Alfred could see in either direction, "They're permanent: the Illuminations, they get turned on later in the year, so we won't see them ourselves."

With a thoughtful nod, Alfred decided that he had enough information to pass a fair judgement.

"I am going to make your life a hell this week."

"I was rather under the impression that that was already your life's calling. Now come on, we'll chuck our suitcases in our room then I'll show you the Tower quickly."

"Seriously, have you even _been_ to Vegas?" Alfred muttered as they stepped into the flat. Inside, Arthur made banal but well-meaning chit-chat with the owner, a white-haired woman called Sue, getting their key and leading Alfred up several narrow staircases clad in a fading floral carpet.

Arthur was already sat on the room's one double bed as Alfred stepped inside. There was, he noted, enough room to turn. Almost all of the rest of the small, square room was taken up by a wardrobe made out of what seemed to be fake wood, a double bed, a single bed squashed up against one wall, and a door, presumably leading to a shower. On a wall bracket an old chunky television hung down at an ominous, sloping angle.

"I am going to make your life _worse_ than hell this week."

Arthur continued to sit on the double bed and look smug.

"What is it your lot say? "I call the double bed"."

"No way."

"Yes way. Now, let's go and take a tram to the Tower," Arthur said, already trotting back out of the room.

_**1.41pm, Central**_

"Tad-ah!"

Alfred took off his sunglasses and put his normal glasses back on instead since the watery sunlight had opted to disappear behind a cloud. He squinted up at the building Arthur was gesturing to dramatically.

"Wait. Does Francis know you have that?"

Arthur's expression turned stormy, "What?"

"Have you _seen_ it?" Alfred leant back to get a better look at the large, rust red metal tower that was sprouting out of the top of a building, "It's-"

"Yes, alright, don't rub it in. Francis insisted I'd constructed a monument to his genitals for a good year after they built it. But this one's better than his," he said, stubbornly.

"It's smaller."

Arthur definitely bristled then, "It's what you do with it: it's got a circus, a restaurant, amusements, kids play area, aquarium-"

"Alright," Alfred wrapped an arm about Arthur's shoulder and gave him a rough, one-armed bear hug, "It doesn't change how I feel about you."

Arthur looked across at him suspiciously, "That's not exactly comforting," he glanced at his watch, "Right. Tower tomorrow or Saturday, I think. We could grab a late dinner-that's lunch to you – now, then head back to the flat and unpack whatever we need, then perhaps just have a walk down South Pier before calling it an early night. Sound like a plan?"

"That works I guess."

_**A/N for the confused or curious**_

**Blackpool –** The star of this piece, I suppose. Blackpool is a seaside town on the North-West coast of England, in the county of Lancashire.

**Mini** - Not one of the new fangled ones, perish the thought.

"**Golden Mile" –**The main stretch of shops, fast food outlets and amusement arcades that make up the "promenade" at Blackpool and where most tourists go, obviously. Runs from the "South Pier" (where the amusement park and rollercoaster are) to the "North Pier" (a more traditional, quieter pier).

"**the funding fell through for the super casino." –** Several cities put in a bid to be home to a supercasino; Blackpool was unsuccessful.

"**Does Francis know about that?" –** Blackpool Tower. Does indeed contain a circus, an aquarium and a ballroom, among other things. As much as Arthur may wish to deny it, it is definitely smaller than the Eiffel Tower.

**"Bollocks" –** Damn


	2. Chapter 2

**Al and Artie do Blackpool - Chapter 2**

**1.56pm****, Wednesday to 12.56am, Thursday**

_1.56pm, Central_

"Cod and chips and a hamburger and chips, please," Arthur said, leaning on the chest high counter whilst he waited for the man to get their order together. Alfred meanwhile studied a few of the surrounding shops a little more closely: there was a souvenir shop to one side of the fast food place, selling so many different products it had been forced to some of its wares from the ceiling, including glittery cowboy hats and, weirdly, kilts with plastic asses stuck on them. A little further along, after having heard the familiar theme tune, he had discovered a "Doctor Who" exhibit.

It seemed as though they didn't have any burgers prepared, so Alfred let himself wander down the "Mile", making a mental note of any shops he might want to call back to look at. There was a store filled with "rock" candy that looked worth buying from (though the English Breakfast shaped candies were kind of weird). Just as he chanced upon a strange curved doorway Arthur called him back, wafting two boxes of food at him. He frowned after the unusual, windowless shop, but turned back all the same since his stomach was growling.

"There," Arthur passed him a polystyrene box, quickly dousing his own meal in salt and vinegar.

Alfred opened the container and squinted, uncertainly, inside.

"Um, Arthur-"

"Ah, the sea air," Arthur said, leading them across the road to stand by the railing that separated the pavement from the beach, "Bracing, isn't it?"

"Arthur."

"The weather's going to be quite good as well, they said-"

"Arthur, we've found a cook who's worse than you."

Arthur's reaction appeared two-fold: insulted, naturally, at the slight, but also complimented at the admission. He looked down at his own meal.

"Well, what's wrong with it?"

"I think they forget to wash the potatoes before they made them into fries."

"They're probably just organic."

"And they're kind of cold."

"Just get it eaten."

Alfred pulled the top of the bap off his burger and held it before Arthur, "Meat isn't meant to be that colour. It isn't meant to have emotions, either."

To his relief, even Arthur looked vaguely disconcerted at the sight of the sweaty meat, "Emotions?"

"Yeah. This is clearly a pissed burger: it does not want to be eaten."

"So what are you suggesting?"

They shared a looked and spoke in near-unison.

"MacDonald's?"

"Maccy D's."

They threw the food into the nearest bin and strode off into the town, in search of Golden Arches.

_4.44pm, South_

"Hey!"

Alfred looked back over his shoulder.

"Hey! 'Scuse me, bloke with the glasses, you dropped summat!"

It was a man stood at one of the fairground style stalls, he saw. Alfred patted his pockets down hesitantly.

"You haven't," Arthur said with a sigh, "He's trying to reel you in."

"What's that mean?"

"Reel you in to play the game and lose a lot of money, what else?"

"Hey! Where're you from?"

"Never you bloody mind," Arthur called back pleasantly, not breaking his stride.

"London then?"

Alfred came to a halt and turned around sharply, "No way. I'm American. He's English."

"What're you doing over here then?"

Alfred could hear Arthur sighing behind him as he strode over to the booth, muttering something about "hook, line and sinker."

"I'm on vacation."

"Got a girlfriend?" the man, a tanned, grinning brunet about his own height, asked.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

The man gestured to the giant cuddly toys, the size of a young child, hanging from his stand, "If you did, you could win her something."

"I don't have a girlfriend."

"Then you'll be irresistible once you've got one of these, won't you? Come on, two quid for three balls. Just knock down that bottle," he gestured behind himself to one of three wooden bottles on an otherwise empty shelf, "and it's yours."

"You don't need a giant, cuddly tiger," a giant, cuddly, vacant looking tiger at that, Alfred had to admit, "Come on. Thanks but no thanks, mate," Arthur said, making to walk away.

"Suit yourself," the man shrugged, "I was being stupid to think you'd have the strength to do it between you, anyway."

He smirked softly as both men bridled.

"Give us three balls each," Alfred said, slamming some money down on the counter.

"There you are lads. Try your luck."

Arthur "tried his luck" first. One ball sailed wide past the bottle; a second grazed its edge. The third fell pitifully short of the target altogether. The Englishman gave Alfred a scowl that dared him to comment; still, Alfred found it hard to contain a laugh.

"Obviously fixed."

"Yeah yeah; you're a really bad loser."

He took his first ball from the counter and gave it a little rub on his t-shirt, to a snigger from Arthur. Alfred pulled back his arm and threw it, hard at the bottle. It connected with a resounding crack. Still, the bottle refused to budge. He frowned at that.

Using the second ball he did the same, pulling his arm back and throwing with even more force than before; again, with an almighty "crack" of the ball against the wooden bottle, the two connected.

It was in something of a stubborn rage that he grabbed the last ball and threw, hard and fast at the bottle. After a moment of teetering, it finally came free of its mooring and fell to the floor. A little baffled, the man behind the counter handed him a large, cuddly toy tiger.

Walking back down the pier, Arthur tried to look past the tiger to Alfred; when he managed to do so, he saw the man looking content.

"It was actually glued down, wasn't it?"

"Yep. But I wanted that goddamn tiger," Alfred said, punctuating the words by giving the toy an extra big squeeze.

_12.56am, B&B_

At the time Alfred had been too flushed with victory to consider the practicalities of a giant toy tiger sharing their tiny accommodation. Still, even when faced with the reality of the giant toy, grinning inanely at both men from across the room, Alfred was determined to make matters work; when night fell, he pulled the toy into his own bed and snuggled up around it as he fell to sleep, much to Arthur's bafflement.

The only problem remaining was that because of his cheap construction, and his rather rigid sitting posture, the tiger took up a great deal of the single bed's width. Indeed, the problem was so acute that when Alfred moved even fractionally in his bed he was pushed out and onto the floor.

The second time this occurred, Arthur didn't simply grumble to himself, turn over in his bed and go back to sleep: the man found his voice.

"The tiger has to go."

"No way! I liberated him."

"I don't give a flying fuck. The tiger - must - go."

"No. Look, there's three bed spaces and three people-"

"The tiger is not a person."

"Whatever, there's three things to go in three spaces. That's not difficult to figure out. So, you and the tiger go in the double bed, I'll stay in the single."

Arthur sat up, rubbing tiredly at his eyes and glaring at Alfred in disbelief, "I am not sharing my bed with a dopey looking tiger."

"Then it's me and the tiger, and you in the single."

"Not happening either," Arthur said firmly, "I like to stretch out and I called it, remember."

"Then it's me and you in the double, and the tiger in the single."

Arthur opened his mouth to complain. Alfred gave a diplomatic sort of shrug, "Look, there's no room anywhere else. And he's staying,"

"...Give me strength," Arthur held up the covers threateningly, "Get in and go to sleep, now. Don't you dare go and tuck that tiger in."

Alfred jumped into the double bed and settled down, finding a comfortable dip in the old, limp mattress. Even with his eyes closed, he felt how by his side Arthur was laid like a toy soldier, arms stiff, back straight.

"I'm calling a truce, you're safe."

Arthur slumped down beside him with a sigh.

"Fine. G'night."

The tiger continued to beam at them from across the room.


	3. Chapter 3

Al and Artie do Blackpool - Chapter 3  
6.42am to 11.56am, Thursday

_**6.42am, B&B**_

Arthur would be the first to admit that he liked to have a schedule, a routine to his life. At home, he generally rose early and sat with a cup of strong tea, letting himself acclimatise to the day and whatever joys or horrors it had to offer.

The one downside to such an existence, however, was that it was impossible to simply switch one's mind off to the routine for the sake of a holiday. As a result he was hardly surprised when he awoke and made a note of the time with his watch. Still, Arthur gave a sigh as he realised how unlikely he was to be able to fall back to sleep.

On the other hand, something felt very much out of his routine, he thought to himself as his mind began to tick over, fully awake. He felt warm, far warmer than the duvet or his usual faded galaxy-hitchhiking pyjamas accounted for. A glance across at his left arm explained it: Alfred was sharing the bed, of course. He looked across the room and met, grudgingly, the tiger's eye. Yesterday came back to him.

His arm in particular was so warm, he understood now, because Alfred had somehow managed to roll onto it during the night. Arthur gave a frown as he attempted to extract the limb. Alfred remained quite firmly put and quite as heavy as ever, his eyes flickering a little behind their lids, looking curiously delicate and naked without their glasses.

"You plonker," Arthur muttered. His tone, he knew, was far too fond.

With his free arm, he reached out and grabbed his book from the bedside table. He began to read, attempting to ignore the pins and needles developing in the other limb, waiting for Alfred to move enough to free him.

_**8.57am, B&B**_

Next morning, as the sunlight began to slip in through the thin fabric of the curtains and warm his face, Alfred was tapped on the head with a book.

"Huh?"

"Get up, lazy bones."

He reached for his glasses blindly, stuck them haphazardly on his face and saw he had been hit by a dog eared copy of "Three Men in a Boat". He looked up at Arthur, shaved and immaculately dressed in a navy blazer and crisp white shirt, in a daze.

"What?"

"Up. Get up. Time for a look around, I think."

Alfred ran a hand through his hair, looking about himself and attempting to marshal his senses, "What the hell is the time?"

"Coming up to 9 o'clock."

"What the _fuck_. Blackpool doesn't close at noon, does it?"

"No."

"Then why the hell do we need to get up now?"

"Because we're wasting the finest part of the day," Upon seeing Alfred's unconvinced look, he added, "Plus it would shut me up if you did." He sat down on the bed beside him and began to read some of his book in what was, Alfred thought, a supercilious manner.

"Fine. I'll go and wash up," he grabbed his towel from his suitcase and looked curiously back at the Englishman, "What's the book about, anyway?"

"Oh," Arthur looked at the cover as though uncertain himself, "It's about three men. In a boat."

"No way."

"Yes way. They go on a boating holiday along the Thames and it all goes horribly wrong."

"Huh," Alfred wandered into the shower room, "Nice choice."

"It _is_ a comedy," Arthur offered. The sound of the shower, however, washed away his words.

_**9.17am, B&B**_

After some impressive wheedling, Arthur managed to convince the owner of the B&B to let them have their breakfasts in their room. He was finishing off his own Full English, sopping up tomato juice with his toast, whilst Alfred stood in front of a small, water-spotted mirror, using multiple hair products in a doomed attempt at taming "Nantucket".The effort abandoned, the man wandered about the room, like a caged animal, as he ate his toast, crumbs falling onto the carpet.

With his one free hand, still slightly sticky from gel, Alfred unearthed a stack of old pamphlets and brochures for local attractions from under a stack of corny romance and cheesy crime novels on one of the room's shelves; skimming through them, he found some of the sights Arthur had told him about: the amusement park, the piers, the Tower, as well as a nearby zoo. He frowned at one leaflet a little harder than the others.

" "Funny Girls"?" he said questioningly to Arthur, who immediately dropped his toast crust to his plate, looking less hungry all of a sudden.

"Oh. Yes. It's..."

"A "drag-queen, burlesque showcase spectacular"," Alfred read from the pamphlet, "Wow. Huh," he looked the pictures over one more time before adding, "So are we going?"

"What? No! No," Arthur looked uneasy before explaining, "Look, truth be told, it's more the sort of place me and Francis would go when we're very, very -really unbearably - drunk."

"Then what are we going to do?" Alfred said, still eyeing the leaflet in thought, and with just a little regret, "You said we have to go in the Eiff-Blackpool Tower. What else?"

"The weather's too good for that today," the Englishman got up and pulled a curtain back as though to prove his point, letting in a strong, warm beam of sunshine to cut across the floor, "We should go for a wander on the front."

"A wander toward a casino."

"What? Why do you want to go in there? I can't exactly afford to go splashing cash on a roulette wheel if I can't afford to go abroad."

Alfred bit his lip on the words "This is "your Las Vegas", remember?" with some effort.

"I'll pay-"

Arthur folded his arms in a stiff, icy manner, "No you won't. We can go to the casino later if you must but it's every man for himself. I suppose I'll just have to make sure I win."

_**10.47am, South**_

"Your weather is kinda nice today," Alfred said, looking at the capillaries and the blood in his closed eyelids, his sight turned pinked from the sun shining on him.

Arthur gave a mumbled agreement, muted, Alfred guessed, by the book raised up in front of his face.

"I think I want an ice cream."

"Then go and fetch one," Arthur sighed.

"But it's so far away, I'm comfy right here," he wriggled a little in the pseudo-sand-angel he had wriggled into the beach, "I don't want to lose my spot."

"Oh bugger. No, you don't want one," Arthur's tone said, with sudden melancholy.

Alfred raised his eyebrows in lazy confusion, "I just said I did."

"Buggeration. No, you really don't," finally squinting his eyes open, Alfred looked across at Arthur to see the man reaching out to grab and yank at his arm, "Get up."

"What? Why?" A split-second later, a fat droplet of rain splattered onto his nose, flecking his glasses.

"I have the distinct impression it's going to piss it down," Arthur said, dolefully; as Alfred got to his feet, he noticed behind Arthur that the sky was indeed darkening ominously overhead, the previously pleasant buffer of white fluffy clouds intermingled now with a grey that was heading in their direction.

"But it was sunny just now-"

"That's how it happens," Alfred opened his mouth ready to burst out laughing as Arthur pulled his blazer off and flung it over his head; the sound was cut off before it left his mouth by the torrent of rain that cascaded down on his own head.

"Don't you have an umbrella?" he yelled at the Englishman, giving the man his hand almost gratefully as his glasses began to spot and stream with so much water that their surroundings became misty and indecipherable. The water was hissing as it fell and hit the pavements about them and their footsteps smacked and splashed against the ground as they made their way, Alfred assumed, back to the B&B. He squinted blearily at the huddles of holiday-makers stood under shop awnings or running for cover as they passed by.

Arthur sounded insulted by his suggestion, "A brolly? Of course not - it's the bloody summer!"

"But your weather-"

"Isn't _that_ bad. And, besides, I shouldn't have to carry an umbrella about at this time of year," Arthur said, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain, "We could buy one, but we're nearly at the B&B now; I can see it. Keep hold of my hand or you'll get yourself run over."

They wove their way through the traffic, each vehicle whirring and squeaking as its wipers washed away streams of water onto the tarmac. Ungracefully, the pair skidded to a halt in front of the B&B, Arthur fumbling for his key.

"But the casino - I wanted to gamble!"

Their conversation was halted momentarily as Arthur let them into the B&B and then into their own room. They stood in the tiny area of open floor space together, silent and dripping onto the carpet.

Arthur finally removed his sodden blazer from his head to reveal mussed but otherwise dry hair. He dropped the garment onto a peg on the back of the door and looked down at his legs, soaked in their jeans. Finally, he looked up to address Alfred.

"If you really want to go, by all means," he gave a gesture toward the window. The sound of the rain filling the guttering and pouring down the drainpipe sounded out in the room like the muted conversation of another person.

"Nevermind," Alfred took off his own thoroughly drenched jacket and shook his hair from his face, a little gratified to hear an outraged yelp from Arthur as some of the water hit him, "We can't just sit in here though, there's nothing to do-...Although; wait a second," with some difficulty, his wet jeans sticking stiffly to his legs as he moved, he bent to retrieve his suitcase from under one bed. After some fumbling he unearthed, with a smirk on his lips, a deck of cards.

Arthur gave an acquiescent shrug.

"Fine, what am I beating you at today, then?"

"Poker."

"Alrigh-"

Alfred held up a finger and went on.

"Strip poker."

_**11.56am, B&B**_

"I'm under the impression that you're folding good hands on purpose."

"Oh? What makes you say that?"

"The fact that you've only got your pants and your t-shirt left on and I've only lost my socks so far."

Alfred, sitting with bare crossed legs beside Arthur on the double bed, gave a grin, "Maybe."

"Hardly in the spirit of the game. Especially since I stopped you from buying that ice-cream in the nick of time, as well. I call."

"Then I call."

Arthur dealt the last card onto the "board" and turned over his own hand, "I've got two pair: Jacks and nines."

Alfred threw his own cards down, "I've got jack shit."

"Off with the t-shirt then," to the American, Arthur seemed a little subdued to say he was beating him at a game. He couldn't quite understand why, though he wondered if it had anything to do with his admitting he was playing badly on purpose. All thoughts in that direction were postponed as he felt his t-shirt snag, halfway over his head.

"Ah damn, I'm stuck. "

"What?"

"I'm stuck. I think the neck is caught on my glasses," he waggled his arms above his head to prove his point, "Have you seen by the way? Even my t-shirt is wet through and I was wearing a jacket."

"You'll live," Arthur sighed, reaching forward and pulling at the shirt, wobbling a little on the lumpy mattress, "What have y-oh, wait, I think I see what it's caught on, hold sti-"

The old mattress, completely void of shape and rigidity, decide to dip even in the middle at their sudden movements: accordingly, Arthur toppled onto Alfred, a leg either side of his waist. Instinctively the American reached out to grab the man about what felt like his shoulders, although he was unable to check, his head still stuck in the body of his t-shirt.

"Sorry," Alfred felt and saw the outline of Arthur's long fingered hands through the almost translucent fabric of his sodden t-shirt as they gently pulled the fabric trapped in the hinge of his glasses free, "Next time, remember to take your glasses off first and save us some trouble."

The words fell rather flatter than usual, carrying less than the expected amount of aggravation.

Maybe, Alfred thought, as Arthur pulled the t-shirt clean off his head, looking down at him with a curiously closed expression on his face, it was the fact that he was near enough naked that was causing Arthur's subdued mood.

The t-shirt dropped onto the floor along with the rest of his clothes (and Arthur's socks), Arthur dealt the next hand onto the bedspread. Both men bet on the flop and the turn.

"I call," Alfred said as they bet for the final card, the river, "How about you?"

He could see the man worrying his bottom lip. Finally, Arthur threw his cards face down, then, hurriedly, took off his shirt and dropped it onto the pile, "I fold. Come on, it's clearing outside now. We ought to get dressed again and get some lunch. I've had a few ideas about what we could do tonight."

Alfred waited until Arthur had almost clambered into the wardrobe, looking for another pair of suitable trousers, to flip over the man's cards: an Ace and ten of hearts. Combined with the three other heart cards on the board, Arthur, he realised, had had a "nut flush", a hand almost always guaranteed to win.

His brow creased with a frown, Alfred packed the cards away and back into their box.

_**A/N for the confused or curious**_

**"galaxy-hitchhiking pyjamas"** - Think Arthur Dent from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy chic.

**"Three Men in a Boat". –** "Three Men in a Boat" is a classic comic English novel written in the late 19th century. As Arthur goes on to explain, it is, unsurprisingly, about three male friends who go on an atrocious boating holiday up the Thames. Their adventures include attempts at putting up a tent and opening an indomitable can of pineapple rings. Other topics discussed include the British weather, how fishermen lie and how friends shouldn't learn to play the banjo.

**"Look, truth be told, it's more the sort of place me and Francis would go when we're very, very, really unbearably drunk." –** Funny Girls is one of Blackpool's most successful venues and is just what Alfred says it is: a burlesque show and bar starring only men in drag.

**  
"Distinct impression it's going to piss it down" –**It may be that I wear rose-tinted glasses but I've always found the British weather to be not _that_ bad. It's just a bit unpredictable. Whilst the summers aren't too hot (though this current one is hotter than usual), there aren't endless rains either, at least not in most regions. It's more the case that it'll start off looking like a nice week and then turn rainy, or vice versa. Impossible-to-dress-for weather. And typically people buy brollies, they don't carry them around. It's either idiocy or optimism.

"**Flop, turn, river" –**Texas Hold 'Em terminology. Refers to the different cards on the board which players use to form the best hand.

"**Nut flush"** – Five cards of the same suit. Arthur has the Ace of hearts in his hand so unless Alfred had a straight flush (say 7, 8, 9, 10, J of hearts) it's highly unlikely his hand would lose.

**Arthur!Slang:**

"**Plonker" – **fool/idiot

"**Bugger/buggeration" –**Damn


	4. Chapter 4

_Al and Artie do Blackpool - Chapter 4  
7.45pm, Thursday to 01.09am, Friday__**  
**_

_**7.45pm, B&B**_

"_**Right. Final check: keys? Yes. Money? Yes. Mobile? Yes. We're set then," Arthur said. **_

_**The man was wearing, unusually, a plain t-shirt and jeans much like Alfred himself and was looking much younger for it. His expression too added to the youthful look, Alfred felt, a bright eyed excitable look like that of a young predator on the prowl or of a cub playing fighting, perhaps.**_

"_**We need to go out on the piss," had been the precise wording of Arthur's suggestion. It had come sometime that afternoon, after their aborted strip poker game, and at the time Alfred had felt left out of the decision making process. Something about the determined, "so that's that" manner in which had Arthur suggested the idea told the American that the man was going to be a nightmare that night. Whatever the precise nature of Arthur's currently enigmatic mood, Alfred theorised, it was only going to make his manner while drunk even more unbearable.**_

_**Even so, he had heard himself say "Sure," after only a little consideration. He guessed, in his heart, he himself had wanted an excuse to get out of their closet of a room as well.**_

From a little further up the road came the sound of half cheered, half sung snatches of song. Arthur's ears seemed almost to prick up at the noise, and in an instant, his face had lit up with bemusement and gregarious enthusiasm.

_**He slapped Alfred on the arm, eyes aglitter.**_

"_**Come on!" **_

_**And with that, Arthur had quite literally been off: with some strange sort of magic, the man had managed within the space of a minute to weave his way into the group of young, singing men. After another, he had reached the front of the group and was leading the way to the nearest bar. **_

"_**I'm not tryin' to pull you," Arthur blared away at the head of the pack, an arm held up as though conducting the music or as though leading the battle charge, "Even though I would like to. I think you are really fit; you're fit but my gosh, don't you know it?"**_

_**The American followed at a slight distance; Alfred trusted his instincts: the night was going to blow.**_

_**00.14am, a club, Central**_

"_**You in that dress," Arthur told him, sincerely, "My thoughts I confess, verge on dirty. Oh c'mon, Eileen." **_

_**Alfred looked up from studying the label on his Budweiser, "You've had," he checked their table, "A scotch, a beer and a mixer, how are you hammered?"**_

_**Arthur stopped crooning long enough to study the table's empty glasses. It appeared to take him several attempts to accurately count the number; he mouthed each number as he did so, "Oh. Yeah. Well, I sort of made friends with a stag party and they bought me a few; and then there was this girl, and she got me a rum, because she was a lovely lady," screwing up his face he looked at Alfred in suspicion and annoyance, "And who says I'm drunk? I can handle my bloody drink."**_

"_**Yeah. Okay. Tell that to the toilet bowl tomorrow."**_

"_**Why are you sat here like a blumming wallflower, anyway?"**_

"_**I was waiting to see if you were coming back, idiot," Alfred sighed, "You went to get some more drinks, and then I'm guessing you got distracted by something shiny or by that "lovely lady"."**_

"_**Oh. Oh yeah. Whoops," Arthur located a not quite drained glass on the table and coaxed the remaining drink onto his tongue, "Ah well."**_

_**Alfred finished off his beer with a sigh and a shake of his head, leaning heavily on the table while the music thudded into his brain like a jackhammer.**_

"_**You've got a face like a slapped arse tonight," Arthur noted, loudly, in one of his ears.**_

"_**Thanks."**_

"_**Cheer up and have a bit of fun. There's no way you're actually shy, so you must be embarrassed. I assure you," Arthur said, gripping his arm in what was evidently meant to be an earnest hold, but actually seemed crucial to the man keeping his balance on his stool, "I'm not that inebriated. I'm fine and dandy and this night is evidently the dog's bollocks. So, let's have a jolly time, shall we?"**_

_**It always astounded Alfred how Arthur's already considerable vocabulary seemed to expand even further when he was drunk.**_

"_**Fine. What do you want to do, exactly?"**_

"_**Well, those girls over there," said Arthur, gesturing with his empty glass, "Have been undressing you with their eyes for about half an hour. We should go and say hello. Be friendly; gentlemanly, what?"**_

_**They walked over, Arthur stumbling and swaggering in unison, Alfred easily skirting the revellers they passed. The girls were about Alfred's "age", a blonde and a brunette with long, slightly fake looking hair and a considerable amount of make-up. Still, their smiles seemed warm and genuine; the two quickly moved to accommodate the men at their table.**_

"_**Hi," one smiled at Alfred. The other, it appeared somewhat reluctantly, smiled a greeting at Arthur, who had managed to mount his stool after two attempts, "Want a drink?"**_

"_**Oh yes please. That'd be awfully nice," Arthur simpered, like a man in a desert who had stumbled upon an oasis.**_

_**00.30am, a club, Central **_

_**The quartet sat and drank in near silence for a few minutes. Alfred, to his relief, began to feel a bit of a buzz from his beer and was better able to let the night wash over him.**_

"_**Your accent's weird," the brunette yelled over the music, across the table from Alfred. He gave her a wide, gleaming grin back.**_

"_**Yeah I guess: I'm American."**_

"_**Oh," both girls seemed taken by this information; Arthur's mood, by contrast, seemed to visibly dip. The man clung a little harder to his lager, sipping it with hardly a pause for breath.**_

"_**Whereabouts? Are you from New York?" one girl asked.**_

"_**Yeah."**_

_**Almost simultaneously, the other asked, "From California?"**_

"_**Sure, there too," he grinned. They both laughed happily, "Another drink ladies?"**_

"_**Yes please, cowboy."**_

00.37am, a club, Central

Arthur, he couldn't help but notice, had turned near-comatosely quiet in the course of their conversation with the girls.

"_**So what do you do for a living? You look like a movie star."**_

"_**I'm in college; you know, university," he explained, and the girls seemed to melt a little further, "But I might become an astronaut."**_

_**That much seemed to stir Arthur, marginally. "Bullshit," he mumbled into his empty pint glass.**_

"_**What's wrong with your friend?" the blonde asked, giving Arthur an open scowl.**_

"_**Oh, he's just had too many. He'll be okay."**_

"_**He's not American, is he?" the brunette said with evident disappointment.**_

"_**No, English."**_

_**Both girls seemed to think they had exhausted the subject of Arthur and turned their attention whole-heartedly back to Alfred. He fought down a frown at how little his friend seemed to care, slumped as he was across the tabletop.**_

"_**You look like an athlete, too."**_

"_**Sure. I've got a football scholarship," Well, fuck it, Alfred found his fuzzy, drink-tinged brain thinking: if Arthur was going to drag him on vacation to wind up in weird, incomprehensible moods, to exclude him and then to drink himself into a gloomy stupor, he, Alfred, might as well have some fun, "Guess what college I go to."**_

"_**Ohh, Harvard? Yale?"**_

"_**Ohh, Princetown?" the other girl slurred.**_

"_**Yep."**_

_**They both snorted quite unattractively with laughter.**_

"_**Well, which is it?" the blonde said, giving him a playful shake of his arm, as though to physically extract the information.**_

"_**All of 'em," when they continued to look puzzled, giggling all the while, he leant forward and lowered his voice, "Can you keep a secret?"**_

"_**Of course!"**_

"_**Okay. You see, the thing is, you know how I said I'm from all over? You know how I said I got into Harvard and Yale and Princeton?" he saw Arthur's head rise up like a shot off his folded arms, "The reason is because I *am* Amer-"**_

_**In a split-second Arthur had impromptu rugby tackled him off their high stools and onto the sticky, pitch-black floor below.**_

"_**Ah!"**_

"_**What the fuck do you think you're playing at?"**_

"_**What?" Alfred scowled back, shoving Arthur off himself and getting up, wincing and rubbing his points of impact with the floor, "I'm having fun."**_

"_**Are you insane?" Arthur noticed, at length, the way the girls were gawping at them both and, grabbing a hold of Alfred's arm in a vice like grip muttered, "Sorry, we've got to go. Nice meeting you."**_

"_**See ya girls!" Alfred called back, waving pleasantly, but allowed himself to be dragged out into the chill night beyond the bar.**_

_**The brunette looked after them both with a sad, disappointed sigh. Finishing her drink, she turned to her friend and explained:**_

"_**Poofters."**_

_**00.46am, Central**_

_**Once outside, Arthur stared wide eyed and bewildered at Alfred. He lowered his voice now, in the quieter surroundings, although clashing corny songs from different pubs and bars and the drunken cheers of friends moving down the promenade still reached them.**_

"_**Are you insane?" the Englishman asked, hoarsely.**_

"_**No."**_

"_**What the hell were you thinking? Do you have any idea what you were saying in there?"**_

"_**They were drunk, okay? They were never going to remember, and they would never have believed me, anyway," Alfred said, shrugging dismissively, "They were," he affected a half-decent English accent, almost liking how it made Arthur's eyes narrow, " "Pissed as"- what is it you say?"**_

"_**Farts. It was still stupid."**_

"_**I don't even care," Alfred said, tiredly. He rubbed at his own head to try and clear it off the swirling mess of emotions the alcohol had dislodged: anger, hurt, some unnamed emotion that made him feel raw and tense that he didn't even want to examine, "You know what's worse, though?"**_

"_**Oh, pray tell, what's worse?" Arthur said, with mock concern.**_

"_**You're loaded too. So there's just no point to this. I'm going to go back to our room, alright? Because you won't remember a goddamn thing tomorrow, anyway." With that, he began to walk away, rummaging in his jacket pocket for his key and his wallet for money for the tram, trying to focus his whole attention on the simple task.**_

"_**Wait," the word was soft and pathetic. He almost didn't stop to look back. At the last second, he did so, sullen and reluctant.**_

"_**Wait. I'm only here because of you," Arthur said, looking perplexed by his own words, but fixing Alfred with a heartfelt if wandering gaze all the same, "Don't leave. Please. Don't go."**_

"_**No more drink tonight," Alfred commanded, rather than asked, "You're shit at drinking, anyway. I came here to spend time with you. Not that guy you were in there."**_

"_**Don't go," Arthur murmured again, still looking subtly, quietly distraught in a way that made Alfred feel even more uncomfortable, "Get bloody back here."**_

"_**Fine," he walked back to the Englishman's side, "Happy?"**_

_**Arthur nodded. The man was clearly feeling the effect of the alcohol he had drunk far more now that he was subdued, quiet and stood in the night air. He keeled slowly over onto Alfred's shoulder and remained flopped there, groaning softly. **_

_**Alfred, somehow, managed to drag them both onto a late night tram; the driver hardly looked surprised at the sight of them, Alfred with an arm about Arthur, keeping the man from slumping over too much on their bench. As the track twisted, Arthur wound up leaning against him. It unnerved Alfred to realise that, even as the tram track swerved away from him, Arthur still slumped further and further against him. Several minutes, several bends and several feeble moans from Arthur later and Alfred was grateful to see the familiar lit up sign of the B&B swim into view through the smudged and dirtied window of the tram.**_

_**01.09am, B&B**_

_**He hauled the man onto the bed beside him, managing to pull off his t-shirt and shoes but leaving his jeans untouched. Once laid down, Arthur slung a foot out of the bed, no doubt to place on the floor in a bid to keep the room from spinning, and went unaccountably quiet.**_

"_**Good night," Alfred said to him. He closed his eyes and lay on his back, listening all the while for sounds from Arthur.**_

_**At last, he heard the man, little more than whispering.**_

"_**When you were little, we slept like this."**_

_**Knowing Arthur was either looking outward from the bed, or had his eyes shut, Alfred allowed himself to frown tiredly.**_

"_**Yes, I guess we did."**_

"_**You would get scared in storms sometimes, and I would have to save the day: King Arthur, to the rescue."**_

_**He remembered. He remembered, as though through a fog or as though his memories were photos offering incomplete glimpses into the past. One night stood out in his mind. He had just been discovered by this strange man, this "Britannia", dressed so smartly and richly. The man had had big eyebrows that made him smile and made him like him because he was easy to identify. One night, there had been horrible, groaning thunder rolling towards his house, and Alfred had shivered with the fear of how insignificant he was, how easily crushed he was, when compared to the sound of that storm, like a stampede of buffalo, charging right at him.**_

"_**What is wrong?" Arthur had asked him, reading, or maybe writing something (it was difficult to recall). Alfred remembered how he had just shaken and willed Arthur to understand. And then, like he had read his mind, Arthur had dressed for bed, gotten in beside him and told him firmly to be brave. "You are a strong boy", he had said, "You are more than a match for a little thunder. And I am here, am I not?" Only then had Alfred felt even slightly tired that night, capable of letting down his defences. He had felt Arthur's presence like a huge wall, shielding him. He had been King Arthur, cutting down all obstacles for both himself and for Alfred. As he had grown, Alfred had learned just how accurate his nickname had been, and at times he had felt sickened by how he had clung to that man each night, for comfort and safety, when he was capable of so much destruction.**_

_**The man beside him now, half hanging off their bed, was thinner. He seemed, somehow, less substantial and utterly altered to his eye. He wasn't, Alfred realised, so much a wall as a portable shield to him now. Back then, Arthur had isolated him "for his own safety"; he had supervised his whole existence, so that he experienced the world second hand. Now, he was an ally, a friend: a shield or a weapon that Alfred could rely on, but not be dominated by, as he charged headlong into every aspect of life.**_

"_**Yeah. I remember," he said at length, sighing.**_

"_**You're a lot bigger now," Arthur murmured, and Alfred felt the implication of the man's words. It meant that Arthur too recognised how they had both changed, considerably, and that those memories were somehow strange to reflect on, seeming to belong to a different life or people other than themselves.**_

"_**I grew up."**_

"_**My bed is very big at home these days. Feels s'like m'swimming in it. Or drownin'," Arthur slurred.**_

"_**Oh," Alfred, with a scrunch of his eyebrows, tried to will the other man to go to sleep beside him.**_

_**Even more slowly, even quieter still, Arthur asked one last question.**_

"_**Do you remember when you stayed over, back in the '30s, between the wars?"**_

"_**Of course I do."**_

_**They had gotten drunk then, too, but it had been incomparable to now: then, they had mutually wanted cheering up, and they had felt warmed, both by the cheap liquor but also by one another's presence. Falling into bed had been easy and it had felt so obvious. Alfred remembered how Arthur had grinned and laughed, kissed him and clung to him, antagonism gone, as Alfred had moved inside of him. It was then that Alfred had noticed how the man's smile was naturally a little lopsided and he had liked him even more for that little, idiosyncratic fault.**_

_**Arthur, in a tone of tired, drunken finality murmured one last thing before turning eerily quiet once again.**_

"I think about that night a lot, you know."

_**Before Alfred could think of a suitable answer, the man had begun to snore.  
**_

_**A/N for the confused or curious**_

"_**gentlemanly, what?" – Edwardian phraseology, because a drunken Arthur is an Arthur unstuck in time.**_

"_**Back in the '30s, between the wars" –**__** The Great Depression/The Great Slump. A period of recession, unemployment and poverty for both nations (as well as countless others).**_

"_**Pint glass" – **__**One of these. **_

"_**You're fit but my gosh, don't you know it?"; "Oh c'mon, Eileen." – Arthur "sings" **__**"Fit But You Know It"**__** by The Streets and **__**"Come On Eileen"**__** by Dexy's Midnight Runners.**_

_****_

_**Arthur!Slang**_

"_**Pull you" – flirt, get with someone.**_

_**"Poofters" –**__** gay men**___

"_**Blumming" –**__** synonym for bloody**_

_**"It's the dog's bollocks" – **__**It's brilliant**_

"_**You've got a face like a slapped arse" – You look unaccountably/excessively gloomy.**_

"_**Fit" – attractive**_


	5. Chapter 5

Al and Artie do Blackpool - Chapter 5  
5.32am to 2.34pm, Friday 

5.32am, B&B

Alfred was woken by the sound of Arthur retching into the toilet. He heard the soft sound of his disgusted moan afterwards, a hollow sound bouncing off the tiled walls of the shower room. The toilet flushed and a tap ran, he presumed as the man brushed his teeth.

Quietly, Arthur slunk back into their bed. The American pretended to sleep, waiting until the man had settled by his side, crumpled in upon himself like a piece of litter. As lazily, as unintentionally as he could fake, Alfred turned over and flung an arm over Arthur's side. Beneath the touch, he felt how the Englishman let his muscles relax, face burrowed down into his pillow, and fell back into an uneasy slumber.

8.48am, B&B

"Morning," Alfred said, dressed, shaved and fed, looking down at Arthur.

The man rubbed at his stubbly chin and mumbled something caught between a yawn, a sigh and a greeting.

"I don't speak Arthur."

Arthur found his tongue after some purposeful swallowing and clearing of his throat.

"You don't even speak bloody English, if we're brutally honest."

"So you're not that hung over," Alfred said, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets and sending the floor a despairing look, "Your sarcasm isn't impaired, at least. There's some toast on a tray over there for you," he gestured to the tiger, currently guarding it.

"Cheers," Arthur pulled himself up into a sitting position with a stretch and a grimace. Now firmly ensconced in the land of the living, he was able to make a study of Alfred's attire, "Going out?"

"Yeah. I guessed that you might need the morning to recover."

"I'll be alright when I've had some food, I'm fine with booze," Arthur said with what appeared to be an attempt at a manly shrug, "We could go and look at the Pleasure Beach this afternoon, if you want - the theme park place."

"I'd like that," casually, Alfred queried, "So, what do you remember of last night?"

"Oh," Arthur's eyebrows shot up into his currently nest-like hair, "I'm not too sure. Well, I remember I mixed my drinks because I kept hopping stag party and they were all having different stuff – vodka shots for one," he paused a moment, clearly fighting down another wave of nausea at the thought, "Lager for the next. That hasn't helped, I admit. Ah, and I think a girl bought me rum because I told her I was a pirate-"

"You told me about the girl."

"And – yes, I shouted at a DJ because he wouldn't put on "Prince Charming" and I bloody love that song," he said; he shot a suspicious look at Alfred, "Why? I didn't do something really idiotic, did I? I didn't try to snog a policeman or anything?"

"No."

"And I didn't bugger off and leave you behind either?"

"No. You failed at singing, dancing, flirting with girls and inanimate objects alike, but you didn't do anything too stupid," Alfred lied, "It's fine. Eat the toast already, it's gonna get cold. I'll be back at lunch."

"Make it two o'clock," Arthur said, finally pulling himself out of bed and looking mildly victorious at having managed the action, "And meet me on the beach by South Pier, Pleasure Beach side. I'll need some sea air to shake away the cobwebs."

11.22am, The Golden Mile

After much deliberation, Alfred selected himself a bright red lolly as big as his own face shaped like a thumbs up and gave the shopkeeper a pound coin. Back on the Mile, he stopped to give the lolly a slow, thoughtful lick: it tasted of little other than sugar. He began to gnaw at the top as he eyes roved over the street about him.

He was starting to think the 10p coffee he had bought inside one arcade and the Red Bull he'd purchased in a Fish and Chip shop were a bad idea without Arthur being about to show him where the best attractions were, leaving him with tons of energy but nowhere to spend it. The one upside to Blackpool was that all the entertainment was on the same stretch more or less (although, to his disappointment, a walk up and down the Mile had shown him that Funny Girls, that drag bar, lay elsewhere). Still, you had to be a kid to ride on the donkeys which ruled that out, and he had a feeling Arthur might want to visit one of the amusement arcades later, a thought almost confirmed when he discovered a pirate themed arcade called "Coral Island".

Arthur opted to go through some of the souvenir shops instead, sadly leaving his mind more than free to mull over the questions and thoughts last night's dreamless sleep had not managed to shake.

He strolled around one of the bigger gift shops slowly as his mind began to wander. He should have drunk more the night before, he knew. That was the problem here. Usually, if they drank together they would be get totally wasted, although that in itself was fairly rare, Arthur usually opting to fall down, dead drunk in a ditch, sporting a traffic cone for a hat by himself, or else joining Francis for some obscene drunken adventure. That was fine, because then whatever happened lost all significance. They could kiss, they could do more, they could admit stuff, and no one had to wake up feeling awkward, waiting for the other to start asking questions.

He felt, with the ghost of a memory, as he picked up a London bus money box with an unintentional flat tyre, where Arthur had rested his head against him the night before on the tram ride. The weight of it had been reassuringly solid and warm, yet oddly distant too.

Then again, that was Arthur: oddly distant. Alfred checked out a huge display of Yao-origin-looking goods on one wall, the majority High School Musical inspired. Arthur was never quite all there. He always had a newspaper in front of his face, or a book, or simply wore an impenetrable smirk that hid anything resembling true emotion.

Well, that was much was true to an extent: on their vacations, he would alter. It was the mutual isolation, maybe (Alfred shook a snowglobe, sending snow falling down onto an otherwise summery beach scene, complete with donkeys). They had never really explicitly agreed to it, but when they did vacation together it was only ever the two of them, on their own lands, with scarcely any contact with anyone else. Then, Arthur would get like he was currently, either chummy or awkward, and unbearable when drunk. He replaced the snowglobe with a sigh.

He quickly went to the counter to purchase himself a postcard with Arthur's homage to Francis' genitals on it from a rack featuring cards shaped like donkeys, fish and chips and big busted women and tucked it into his pocket before stepping back outside again.

Alfred took out his phone on a whim and started typing a text, all the while aware of the looks he was getting from people as he passed by, standing out as he did with his subtle differences, the blonde hair, his height, his athletic shape and his healthier colouring.

"Hey Matt. Guess where I am rite now? Here's a clue: no one has bowler hats and no one is saying "cor blimey". Things are pretty good. There's a rollercoaster and loads of burger stands-"

The looks the tourists wore as they gave him those double takes, he realised, were reminiscent of the look Arthur sometimes shot him while they vacationed: it was a puzzled look, as though they wondered why he would bother with them, with Blackpool, of all places. Somehow, he thought, sucking at the thumb of his lolly, it reminded him of the expression Arthur sometimes wore when he watched him and thought Alfred was unaware.

Like that one time in the 1980s, when Alfred had managed to convince Arthur to spend a vacation at his place. He had been stunned that the man had agreed at all to something that came close to doing him a favour, to being the one in charge. So much was that the case that Alfred had been unable to stop himself from more or less mocking the man in his choice of location: Disneyland, Florida.

The whole time, Arthur had been cussing him, worse than he himself had been in Blackpool thus far. The man had actually managed to unearth a whole new vein of insults that Alfred, upon looking them up later, had discovered to be middle and old English. Still, he had spotted him, occasionally, whilst they had posed for a photo with Mickey and while they had watched the fireworks, smiling. More than that, he had spotted the man watching him with that confused, isolated look, as though wondering whether it was all a trick at his expense.

He looked again at the unsent text on his phone and found it oddly meaningless. Alfred deleted the draft and stuck his phone back in one pocket, looking out at the grey green sea, foaming against the beach, just about dry from the previous day's rain.

Upon turning around, he saw it again: that weird, small, arched doorway, tucked between shops and fast food vendors. Alfred paused mid-lick of his lolly to study the small but totally un-inconspicuous doorway. Complete with faux curved doorway and beaded curtain, it was evidently a fortune teller's hut. In the one, tiny window faded photographs of celebrities Alfred had never seen before were propped up, all featuring the same tanned woman wearing different velvet gowns.

"Madame Flora says," an eerie hand-painted sign told him, "That your hand holds the secrets to your future. Madame Flora can tell you your destiny."

He moved back the curtain with his free hand and poked his head inside.

"Hello? Hey, is there anyone here?"

Shuffling emanated from the back of the "shop". A few moments later, patting down a dress almost identical to those in the photographs, an older, fatter "Madam Flora" appeared.

"Do you wish to know your future, child?"

Alfred gave a little, childish sort of grin, licking his lolly again.

"Sure. Why not?"

"It's five pounds."

He dug into one pocket and pulled out a dog-eared note, "There. So, what's in store?"

He was gestured to sit down on a velour pouf by the fortune teller. Just as he was looking about the dusky, sparsely lit room, his free hand was practically snatched up by Flora. He jumped at the cold, dry touch of her hands as they twisted, turned and stroked at his hand.

"Interesting."

"Yeah?" he tried to laugh off his nervousness, "Anything good?"

"You are not like other men," she whispered, huskily. He felt himself blanch, "No. Not at all. You are something quite different. And not many are aware of this, are they?"

What the hell had she figured out? He tried to keep the horror from his eyes as he imagined the woman proclaiming him as the living embodiment of a nation to the whole world, and, worst still, the "absolute bollocking" Arthur would give him as a consequence. His mouth turned as dry as the desert, forcing him to swallow several times before he could answer, "N-no."

To his relief, the woman opted to study another line instead.

"Your life line," she said, touching one particular contour of his palm, "Is very strong."

"Fuck yeah."

Flora looked a little affronted at the interjection; Alfred offered an apologetic look.

"I mean, go on."

"Yes, it is strong, and long. You will lead a happy, successful life, although it will have its difficulties. I see you overcoming these problems and growing stronger with them."

She moved next to a line higher up his palm.

"Ah, you are a head-strong young man. Quick to act, but also quick to judge," Alfred licked his lolly and frowned at the words, "But you are warm too. I can see that you are good to your friends, and loyal."

Flora took a long, slow inhale before she went on, clearly preparing herself for more dramatic revelations.

"There is a love," she still ran a finger down the heart line, almost causing Alfred to giggle at the ticklish touch, "Yes, a love. I see-dark eyes. Beautiful dark eyes. It is almost as though... as though when looking at your love you are drawn to looking at their eyes. They are special, somehow. Oh," she almost purred the word, "You have known this person for a long time. You know, deep down, how well you love this person, don't you?"

Alfred nearly dropped his lolly. At length, Flora let go of his hand.

"And that," she said, in a curt, business-like tone, "Is your fortune."

"Um, thank you," he got to his feet, disorientated in the gloomy, stuffy room. After a moment's hesitation, a moment of looking at Flora, ready to press for further details, Alfred stepped back out into the sunshine, squinting, "'bye."

"Goodbye."

Alfred continued walking down the Golden Mile. He dropped his still obscenely large lolly into the first bin he came to with a sickly frown.

A young woman was the next person to step into the fortune teller's booth.

"Welcome," she was told by Flora and was made to sit down. "Ah," the mystic said, softly, "I see your life line is very strong."

2.02pm, South Pier Beach

Taking the tram back down to South Pier, Alfred found Arthur on the sands, snoring, a newspaper balanced on his face. He gave the man a well-placed tap to the ribs with his sneaker.

"Wh-what? I-was-resting-my-eyes," the Englishman's sleepy look was soon replaced with one of mortification as he glanced down at the paper in his lap to see it open at Page 3, a blonde called Becky looking up from the sheet wearing little except a smile. He quickly folded the paper shut and, shielding his eyes with his hand, gave Alfred a look.

"Pleasure Beach, right? I've "taken in the sights"."

"Oh really? What've you been doing then?" Arthur said as he got to his feet and threw his jacket back on, the back, Alfred noticed, now covered in sand. He contemplated brushing it off for him, but somehow found his hand stilled and his face flushed.

"I've been taking in the sight of pigeon crap, that weird arcade game with the mechanical racing camels and ten pence coffee that tastes like grit. So now I want to go on that rollercoaster of yours."

He took Arthur by the hand and led him in the direction Arthur had gestured to earlier, soon making out the giant, smiling sun-shaped sign of the "Pleasure Beach" amusement park. Next, he laid eyes on the ride itself.

"That's your "big one"?"

"Oi, don't start that again. It's bloody big enough. I've got better roller coasters, but it's not at all bad for the seaside. Besides, I don't know why you want to go on anyway. It's just paying to get your internal organs rearranged, the way I see it. Still, feel free to have a go, if you must."

"I thought we were both going on."

Arthur gave him a peeved look, "I said I'd go in and have a look about the place with you. Never said anything about going on the blasted rollercoaster. It doesn't much appeal, if I'm honest."

"Aw, come on," Alfred hooked his arm through Arthur's "That's not host-ly. And the seats are in pairs, it's like it's destiny," after a quick look about himself, he spotted and pulled them both in the direction of a pay booth, "Where's your sense of adventure?"

2.34pm, Pleasure Beach, "The Big One"

"Oh god," Arthur murmured, clinging to the padded seat restraints until his knuckles turned white from the effort.

"We aren't even moving yet," Alfred sighed as he squinted across at him, his glasses stored carefully in one pocket. With the words a clunk, a groan of machinery and a whir indicated that they were setting in motion and consequently, Arthur's moaning grew louder. In the seats behind them, Alfred could hear, there were young girls giggling to one another.

"Come on, it's great! Look at the view!" he yelled across at Arthur, to compensate for the whoosh of the air as they climbed to the first peak.

"The view? You've got your glasses off, you're one to talk!"

"Well then you've got to look for me then!" Alfred said, shooting a grin at Arthur.

Without his glasses, everything was blurred and warped, as though seen through a curved, fogged window. It always made him take notice of different aspects of his surroundings and now, he saw how bright the metal of the track glittered in places, how the trees below were puffy, like the thought bubbles in comics. As Arthur reluctantly cracked open his eyes Alfred didn't notice their colour (British racing green, forest-coloured) as he usually might, but rather got a vague idea of how... dark they were.

Alfred left his stomach behind him as they went down the first drop.

"Oh bloody hell – I-hate-you-ungrateful-wanker!" Arthur moaned as they went.

The carts slowed down again, curving around to the next peak, and Alfred stared across at Arthur once more, squinting intently in order to bring him better into focus. The Englishman had shut his eyes tight again now, leaving Alfred to look at –

"It is almost as though... as though when looking at your love you are drawn to looking at their eyes."

Those gigantic eyebrows.

"Oh. Shit," Alfred whimpered.

They flew down the next plummet, Arthur wailing, the girls behind them cheering.

When they stepped off the ride Arthur hobbled a little, hands patting down the creases in his blazer as though the familiar habit comforted his traumatized constitution, shaking his head despairingly all the while but otherwise appearing no worse for wear. Alfred stepped off after him, stood stock still for a brief moment, then turned, quickly, and vomited into a plant display.

"Delightful."

A/N for the confused or curious

"Prince Charming"- Adam and the Ants being the ultimate Arthur band since all their lyrics are vaguely historical and utterly camp.

Page 3" – The "less-reputable" British newspapers have "Page 3" girls, basically photographs of incredibly busty topless or near-topless girls which take up half or even a full page of the newspaper. Arthur's a pervert, clearly.

"The Big One" – If you're into such things (I'm more an Arthur type myself), the Big One isn't an unimpressive 'coaster. It was the world's tallest circuit rollercoaster for a time in the 1990s and can produce an effect of up to 3.5Gs on riders. More than enough to make a blazer-wearing Englishman cry and a confused, love-struck American vomit.

"British Racing Green" – (Actually one of a number of shades of green, but all are fairly mossy in hue).

English/Arthur!Slang:

"Wanker" – asshole


	6. Chapter 6

_Al and Artie do Blackpool - Chapter 6  
3.56pm to 11.48pm, Friday_

_3.56pm, South Pier beach_

"Your hangover was a bit delayed, wasn't it?" Arthur smiled, good-naturedly, as they sat in a patch of watery sunlight on the beach.

"I don't think it was that. I had some candy. And that gritty coffee," Alfred said, "We need sentry outposts."

"No, we want a good, sturdy moat and a drawbridge," Arthur contested, giving his 99 another lick to keep the ice-cream from trickling down the cornet.

They both studied their sand castle pensively. It was lopsided (so much so that a little girl had offered to help them, if they wanted) but it had rather intricate windows drawn into each side with a twig. It also had turrets, though that was more the work of the bucket than a stylist choice on their part.

"If you can construct outposts, you can have them. But I'm having a moat," Arthur said, and began to dig around the castle with the little spade, "Because we're in the 14th century, and people with a battering ram are far more likely that the A-Team or whatever it is you think are attacking."

"There's something really anal about having a historically accurate sand castle, you know."

"Nothing wrong with having high standards."

"I bet you secretly make ships in bottles, too," Alfred said. He grabbed a handful of gloopy, sea-water soaked sand from in between them and began to mould it. He formed two lumpy spheres, marked with the indentations of his gripping fingers, then, with some effort, skewered the two together, on atop with other, with his ice-lolly stick.

"And what's that?"

Alfred, with evident concentration, poked some features onto the top ball, "Snowman. Abominable if you want. He's attacking your historically accurate fortress."

"Oh piss off," Arthur said, though laughter quavered at the edges of his tone. He was currently opening a little plastic bag of paper flags on wooden sticks and sorting through them on the sand, absent-mindedly licking his ice-cream all the while.

Alfred ran a finger through the sand in several wiggles.

"And those are snakes, water snakes, that are swimming through your moat and attacking the castle. And a wolverine," he looked up at length, "Geez, you bought flags, too?"

"S'not a sandcastle without flags," Arthur said, firmly. He picked up the Union Flag and stuck into one turret. Next, after frowning for a moment, he selected the Welsh and Scottish flags.

"How are those guys, anyway? I never really see them."

"Oh, you know, they're family," Arthur said casually, jabbing the Scottish flag into the castle, "James's as big a pillock as he ever was, and Dylan is too busy rubbing Doctor Who in my face to get anything else done," he smirked poking the Welsh flag into the sand, "But they're alright. Not utterly unbearable. How about yours?"

"You mean Matt? I don't see him that much, but he seems alright, I guess," he found himself reluctant to think about the man, since that only brought back the memory of the drafted text, and then all of the thoughts that had followed that. Still, he knew one shared thought was left unspoken between them: they were both fairly lousy brothers.

Alfred saw the man check the selection of stiff, paper flags for Liam's flag, the flag of Northern Ireland, without success, and opted instead for his own, the simple red cross on white. He pushed it carefully into the last turret, which crumbled, leaving a ragged stump that exposed the "flagpole". Finished, the whole castle had a strangely ancient, indomitable yet crumbling and decaying look to it.

"Damn. Well, that'll do I suppose. How's it look?"

The American smiled, "It's good. It'd be better with my flag, though – oh, hey, your ice cream is melting,"

Arthur gave the cornet a lick.

"No, this side. Ah, come here-" Alfred grabbed at his wrist and pulled Arthur toward him so as to give the side of the ice-cream facing him a slow lick, scooping up the long, sticky trickle of vanilla ice cream that had been slipping down its length.

Arthur looked a little stunned afterwards.

"I saved you a dry-cleaning bill," Alfred pointed out. The other man nodded, vaguely.

"Ah. Thanks."

Taking up the twig from Arthur's side, Alfred hastily scrawled in the sand, before they both stood up to depart.

"_WE MADE THIS. DON'T TOUCH – A&A"_

"Hang on," Arthur said, after straightening his clothes and shaking off some of the sand that had settled on top of his shoes, "_You've_ got ice-cream on you now, you gorm," he licked his thumb and stroked it gently along Alfred's cheek. Afterwards, almost as though without realising, he sucked his thumb clean.

"There."

It was Alfred's turn, he felt, to look awkward. They made their way back to the Golden Mile quietly, whilst behind them, the tide tried to creep closer and closer to their castle.

_5.05pm, Coral Island Amusement Arcade, Central_

Alfred was tempted to just walk up to the side of the arcade game he had been playing on and give it a shove. By rights, in any reasonable nation, that tacky mobile phone handset was his, but still the magnetic tether kept hold of the phone, dangling it teasingly over the "Prize chute".

With some regret he walked away, sidestepping a few giddy, squealing kids covered in candyfloss, trying to spot Arthur among the wailing, flashing machines all promising a tacky reward for a few pounds.

Finally, he spotted the man toward the back of the arcade underneath a piece of scenery shaped like the bow of a pirate ship. He was staring intently at the game he was playing, a machine filled with two pence pieces. In a robotic movement, the Englishman waited for the sliding metal shelf inside the machine to pull back, then dropped a coin into a slot, watched it slide down a plastic chute, fall on the shelf, and, occasionally, knock another penny off the front of the shelf, onto another shelf, where it might, perhaps, if it felt like it, push one or two coins off and into a tray to collect.

He was clearly unaware of being watched, too, as he placed coin after coin in the machine, scowling now and again as the coins refused to fall into the tray. Likewise, Alfred noticed, the man seemed to be singing along unrestrainedly to the music filling this level of the amusement centre.

About to approach his friend, he noticed a pair of young men dressed in polo shirts and caps, eyeing Arthur with a smirk. At length, one walked by, intentionally bumping into him as he passed, and sniggering as he did so.

Arthur gave them a brief look Alfred remembered from his youth, from the 1760s. It was the "I rule the world, you know" look, but it seemed to leave the men undeterred, still laughing to themselves a few machines down.

"Hey. I ran out of change," Alfred said, walking over at last and leaning against Arthur's shoulder to watch the marginal progress Arthur was making. Arthur smiled, although he didn't take his eyes off the game, "How much money have you spent so far?"

"Only a couple of quid," he jabbed at the glass, pointing out a pack of sweets that were leaning at an angle that defied the laws of gravity, pointing down toward the winnings tray, "I want those damn sweets. Parma violets - I could murder a pack and I can't be bothered to go about looking for a shop selling them."

Alfred watched as a coin nudged half-heartedly at the roll of the sweets, "What's up with those guys over there? Do you know them?"

Arthur, reluctantly it seemed, pulled his gaze from the machine to glance at the young men down the arcade from them, "Oh, they're just a couple of tossers. I think they've taken offence because I was singing along to Lady Gaga."

"Wow."

"I know, I suppose I deserve it somewhat," Arthur groaned as the sweets shifted marginally closer but still refused to fall.

"Hey - poofs! Piss off!"

Alfred turned to study the men properly now, eyes narrowed.

"What?"

"Don't start anything. Really, it doesn't matter," Arthur said under his breath. He looked at the men himself, civilly, "No need for that. Just minding our own business."

"Piss off you couple of bum bandits," one man spat.

"You're not even making sense," Arthur said, his smile turning strained.

"Yeah, it's cool guys."

"Fuck off back to fuckin' America, you fairies. Or I'll make you fuck off."

Alfred saw the little fuse trip in Arthur's eyes. His smile was gone in a split second, replaced by a sharp, incensed look. He scarcely saw the rest of what happened. An Arthur-shaped blur, growling and cursing, swung an arm. A thud of flesh against flesh and then, flesh against metal rang out, all the while the machines about them playing their tinny refrains. The next second one man was sat on the floor, dazed and clutching at his forehead, his mouth bloodied. The other stared at Arthur openly in disbelief.

Even Arthur looked a little shocked in the after-math.

"Ah," he rubbed at his knuckles, frowning, "Well," he looked to the injured man's baffled friend, "We're not gay: we're friends, like you two. And you're a rude little bastard who doesn't know who he's talking to. Still, make sure he's okay," he gestured to the man on the floor, "Won't you? I've been in a fair few fights in my time," Alfred knew the stranger found the comment hard to believe, looking at Arthur in his crisp blazer and shirt, "He'll be alright in a little while. Get him some liquor, perhaps, to take the edge off. And tell him he's a wanker when he comes 'round."

At last, his expression relatively mellow and collected once again, Arthur's gaze panned back to his arcade game. He broke out into a grin of delight as he did so.

"Ah! I think we must have caught this thing," he reached down and extracted a few coins and a packet of Parma Violets from the tray, quickly opening them and popping one in his mouth with a satisfied sound.

Alfred finally found his voice, "Shouldn't we run? You know, from the cops?"

Arthur's mouth fell open, revealing the Parma Violet on his tongue.

"Good point," he mumbled around the sweet, and then took off, weaving between amusements, turning around briefly to flip the standing man a "v sign" before they left the arcade.

The arcade had been fairly quiet, people presumably enjoying the beach instead due to the continuing sunshine, so the fight had not drawn a crowd. It had only been seen, as far as Alfred's stunned mind could recall, by a rather disgusted looking old woman and by some smirking younger kids. No staff had noticed either, since it had been over with so quickly, and thankfully tucked away in one far corner of the arcade. Still, Alfred was surprised when they came to a halt outside a Chinese take-out place, panting and doubled up, to find that no-one had followed them.

"How are we not getting arrested right now?"

"It's the seaside. Tensions run high: "That's my bird", "No, she was looking at me", "Your ice cream fell on my new trainers", "You walked into me", "You nicked my fiver from that slot machine," Arthur shrugged, pausing now and again for a little more breath in order to continue speaking, raggedly, "It's fine. And besides, I'd like to see that court case, wouldn't you? "Regina against England". We're alright, so long as we don't make a habit of it," he flexed his hand again, wincing, "Bugger I'm out of practice at that. I bet I came out of it worse than he did in the long run."

"I can look after myself, you know," Alfred pointed out, to a groan from Arthur.

"Oh for fuck's-I know. You're a big, strong man and that's wonderful. I just thought when someone, anyone, is threatening us and telling us to clear off, I might want to tell him what's what," Arthur said, stubbornly, "Not because you're a weakling who can't take care of himself but on _principle_. Childish way of doing it, possibly, but like I said, it's the seaside: tensions run high. Mods and Rockers, and all. It can get very stressful, trying to relax."

"He said we were gay."

"I bet _he_ is," Arthur snarled with some satisfaction, "That's usually how that sort of thing plays out, isn't it?"

"Would it be gay if I kissed your hand better?"

"Very," Arthur nodded solemnly. He smirked though, holding out the injured limb all the same. In a gratified tone he added, "Lucky that I am then, isn't it?"

"Why _did_ you try and knock him out when it's true?" Alfred laughed against the broken skin of Arthur's hand, before giving it a little kiss, the kind a mother might give her child to pacify them after a fall.

"Because it's damn rude to make assumptions – homophobia fuelled, at that - about people," he studied Alfred ruefully, "I'm sorry if it upset you; if it was uncouth. I won't do it again."

Alfred looked across to the doorway of the Chinese take-away, "Buy me some crispy duck and we'll call it even."

_11.48pm, B&B_

"Nothing good on telly," Arthur laid down his latest book, a Ballard novel, with a yawn, "Shall we call it an early night? I don't think I could manage another drinking session."

"I don't even want you to try," The American clambered into bed beside him, lying near enough to feel the warmth of the other man's body, but not so close as to raise questions. Above him, he heard Arthur laugh gently.

"What is it?"

"I just remembered: we used to sleep like this back when you were a kid, didn't we?"

"Yeah," Alfred looked up at the man, still leant against the headboard, "You said last night when you were drunk."

"Oh. Sorry, it's a bit of a blur last night."

"S'okay."

"...You're having a shite time, aren't you?" Arthur murmured at length.

Alfred pulled himself up to sit beside the Englishman.

"What?"

"You're having an awful time here, with me, on holiday."

Alfred considered for a moment then replied firmly.

"1992, the World Conference long weekend in Sweden."

After a moment's thought Arthur snorted with laughter.

"Oh god, I forgot about that disaster. What _was_ that food Timo made?"

"No idea. Hanatamago really liked it though," he joined in laughing with the Englishman, "And remember the room we got?"

"I still don't know if Francis had anyone in his room with him or whether he had just talked himself into bed," Arthur said, his eyes holding the ghosts of previous horrors, "What a nightmare."

"And then Berwald and Timo had that fight and we all had to take sides. I was so jealous of Matt getting to be on Timo's team. Seriously, I like Berwald but I understand like one word in every five he says-"

"That's an hour's worth of conversation for him. I can't even imagine what they fought about. Those two are so in sync, they really do seem like they're bloody married, whatever they say to the contrary. Even the dog knows it," Arthur seemed to lose his momentum in the conversation and came to a clumsy halt, frowning, "Wait, what's that got to do with anything?"

"This vacation isn't that bad yet. You need to try a lot harder to make it live up to that."

"Oh. Good," Arthur, impulsively it seemed, gave Alfred a quick kiss on the top of his head, the American rolling his eyes as he did, "Bed then?" he reached out and flicked the switch of the bedside lamp. "Night."

"Night." 

_A/N for the confused or curious_

99 ice cream – The epitome of the British sea-side ice cream is the "99". Arguably only complete with a flake and some raspberry sauce.  


"Parma Violets" – These. A "classic" (and in my opinion, foul) childhood sweet.

"Coral Island" – One of Blackpool's biggest amusement arcades, pirate-themed.

"amusements" – Arthur plays on one of these. An utter waste of time but good fun all the same.

"tensions run high. Mods and rockers, and all." – A simplification, of course. In the 1960s at Brighton on the South coast, arguably provoked by police presence, teenagers who identified with the "mods" or "rockers" music movements would meet up and get into fights at the weekends.

"James... Dylan... (Doctor Who)... Liam" – Human names of Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland, respectively (my own, of course, as opposed to official names). BBC Wales produce both Doctor Who and Torchwood, two of the Beeb's most successful dramas. Torchwood is also set in Cardiff. Like Alfred, I imagine Arthur is unaware just how much his brothers dislike him, being under the impression that's he's rather bloody brilliant. Not helped at all by the fact that he thinks of himself and refers to himself in isolation as Britain/UK even though he technically isn't of course.

"Regina against England" – I believe it's the case that criminal cases in the UK are brought by the State, specifically in the name of "Regina" (latin for Queen).

"a Ballard novel" – Recently deceased British psychological "Science Fiction" author of "Crash", "High Rise" and "Empire of the Sun", among others. 

English/Arthur!Slang:

"Pillock" –fool/idiot

"Poofs", "Fairies", "Bum bandits" – gay men (all insults of course)

"Wanker", "Tossers" – asshole

"the v sign" – Looks like a peace sign with the back of the hand facing out. A swearing gesture in the UK.

"I could murder a (x)" – I am really in the mood to eat (x)

"Fiver" - £5 note


	7. Chapter 7

**Al and Artie do Blackpool - Chapter 7**

8.22am to 3.45pm, Friday

**8.22am, B&B**

"You awake?"

"Mm. Mornin'."

The American waited expectantly for Arthur to move his sleep mussed head off his shoulder, where he had managed to wind up twined about him in the night. The man spoke, however, before he moved.

"Don't feel like getting up. Not yet."

Alfred couldn't help but think to himself how closely Arthur's position mirrored that of their ride home on the tram. It was relief, though, that he smelt Arthur's breath, not tinged with alcohol but rather just musky from sleep. He let his chin rest lazily on the top of the man's head.

"Me neither. I've worn a groove into this bed. It's me-shaped now, I like it."

"S'nice and warm," Arthur prodded Alfred's t-shirt clad chest with one finger, "Get the tiger to go and fetch us some breakfast, I don't think he's pulling his weight around here."

**9.43am, B&B**

"I should get up now," Arthur told his pillow in a solemn mumble.

"You've been saying that for a half hour," Alfred licked the remnants of some scrambled egg from his fingers, "So do it already."

"Requires movement though, doesn't it?"

"Do it or I'll-" Arthur turned over so that he was looking up, albeit from an awkward angle, into Alfred's face.

"Or you'll what?" his elbows were evidently attempting to gain purchase on the mattress, ready to hitch himself up and square off to the man.

"I'll... iron your slacks so they get a double crease down the front."

"Pah, I doubt you'd even know how to operate a trouser press."

"Then I'll hide that HP sauce you like when you order breakfast."

"Cruel and unusual, but I'd get by. Not exactly the same as me hiding your jar of instant from you," Arthur said, his smirk yet more assured.

There was one definite bonus to having known a man for a few centuries: you got to understand their quirks. Even now, Alfred could vividly remember how surprised he had been when they had first gone to bed together, not of the revelation of Arthur's feelings for him (he'd begun to wonder), nor of how good it had felt (he'd imagined it too often not to have had high hopes). One thing in particular always stood out vividly about that night.

"Alright: I'll tickle you until you surrender and shower."

Arthur's brow furrowed, "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, wouldn't I?"

There was a long, tense moment as the pair stared intently at each other.

Alfred was the first to act: he reached down and caught Arthur under the arms. The noises ripped from the man as he proceeded to tickle him were not, he thought, fitting for a former Empire. They sounded rather like squawks, squeaks, as though they were the combined sounds of an over-excited child in a petting zoo. The man attempted to wriggle away, panting "Okay! Okay!" and "White flag!" when he could get enough breath. Alfred feigned deafness.

With a pseudo-wrestling move, he flipped them both so that he was on top of Arthur, pinning the man in place with his knees, hands still roving about on the man's hideous plain blue pyjamas, one working its way under the fabric to bare skin.

"What did you say?" Alfred asked innocently, "Did you I'm the greatest guy you've ever met?"

"Ah! Please-!" Arthur hiccupped for breath, legs thrashing about against Alfred's pincer hold, "Ahhh! Never! Britannia will not be defeated by-ah God stopstopstop!"

Alfred couldn't help laughing at the sight of Arthur, squirming, red in the face, but evidently enjoying himself. He blew upward into his fringe to try and get it out of his face and leant down a little toward the man, mock-scowling.

"That didn't sound like "Yes, Alfred, you're the greatest guy I've ever met" to me."

"Because. It. Wasn't!"

Time for the big guns. "Do it or I tickle the backs of your knees."

"Alfredyou'rethegreatestguyI'veevermet!" Arthur near enough collapsed after the garbled surrender. He closed his eyes, chest still shaking with laughter even though the tickling had ceased, "Oh good God."

Alfred gave a laugh too, sitting back on his haunches victoriously, a task made much easier by Arthur having ceased to thrash about, "Cool. I claim you as my 51st state."

"You bloody well don't, you little git," Arthur smiled. Alfred found himself compelled to jump off the man at the unexpectedly handsome nature of his expression.

He gave the Englishman a push, near enough rolling him off the bed. "Go and get ready. We're going home tonight, right? You're wasting the day and you gave me hell for that on Thursday."

"Very well. Be warned, I'll be plotting my revenge for what you've just done."

**1.09pm, BlackpoolTower Aquarium**

The firm, impressively sloping smirk Arthur wore when he "sought his revenge" made it easier to guess what was coming. Alfred recognised the look as the one he wore at someone else's expense.

"Go on," the man said after they left the big top, "Say it."

"Huh? Say what exactly?"

"I know you're thinking it, so you might as well just say it."

Alfred was silently impressed with how well he hid his own horror at the words. Sucking the remains of his slushie up through his straw helped, numbing his brain enough that he was able to keep looking blankly at the Englishman.

He was also helped immensely by the rather unthreatening sight of Arthur stood before him, wielding a flashing magic wand that they had purchased from one of the vendors in the Circus. Arthur attempted to look triumphant, tapping Alfred's chest with the toy as he did so.

"You liked that circus."

"Sure I did. I admit it."

"So," Arthur's smirk reached gargantuan proportions, "My tower's better than Francis'. Say the words."

Alfred couldn't help but wonder if Madame Flora would have been a little sympathetic if she had known precisely who the "special person" in his life was.

"Fine. Your seaside forgery is way better than Francis' crowning glory. That's perfectly fair to say."

Arthur looked pleased at the words, "Shame I haven't got it on record, but that'll still do nicely. You may have won the tickling battle this morning but my Franco-English Tower battle triumph won me the war."

Alfred gave him a sad shake of the head.

"You drank your slushie way too fast. You've definitely got brain freeze."

The Englishman looked ready to open his mouth in protest, but gave a sigh instead and closed his eyes in a mild wince, "Maybe. I do seem to be talking more cobblers than usual - but it's still true and I'm holding you to those words!"

"So now what?" Alfred looked about them at the teeming corridor. Crowds were walking up and down staircases leading off, arrows proclaimed, to cafes and the aquarium or else to "the top of the tower" and a museum.

"Well that's obvious, isn't it?" The Englishman hooked his arm through Alfred's and gesticulated with his wand, "To the gift-shop!"

**3.45pm, BlackpoolTower**

"There's just one last thing that we haven't done," Arthur said in a much more sober tone after the flush of his victory and the sugar rush began to fade, his wand now firmly tucked in a pocket of his jacket. They both watched as a turtle performed lazy acrobatics in one aquarium tank, "It would really be criminal if we left without visiting."

"Oh? What's that?" Alfred looked across at Arthur, the man's face a curious, flickering shade of blue in the lighting of the aquarium, expression impossible to read.

"Come on, it's this way," Arthur led the way up a few plush carpeted staircases and stopped before a doorway from which soft music emanated. Above the door was a large oval-shaped white sign encircled by golden scrolling.

In sloping script, the sign read "Ballroom". Alfred stared at it in horror.

"Oh, hell no."

To Alfred's eyes it looked as though Arthur quickly veiled a look of dejection, "Hear me out."

"No. No way, Arthur," Alfred said, pulling a face, "I'll do a lot of stuff. I'll drink with you, I'll watch you punch people and then run from the crime scene, but I can't do this," he studied the sign with a pained frown, "It reminds of back then."

Arthur, curiously, was wearing a smile, albeit indecipherable as he too considered the signage, "Before your independence, you mean?"

"Yeah. When you bought me those fancy clothes and all I wanted was to go out in the fields and ride and work. I saw all those damn clothes and I knew I was going to rip holes in the pants and get grass stains on the jackets."

"And I taught you to dance," Arthur nodded.

"Yeah," Alfred hadn't thought about that in decades, near enough a century. The whole affair had been disastrous and vicious. Dancing, he had assumed, was something you did for enjoyment, for fun with someone you liked. And yet there they had been, in that spotless music room with the gleaming hardwood floor with Arthur gripping his hand too tight and cuffing his arm every time he took an incorrect step.

"You refuse to be educated," the man had said with displeasure, whilst that slow, droning music had played on behind them, "It is absurd that you refuse to acquiesce when this instruction is only for your own benefit."

Every correction, every fresh start, every new step had only made him worse and made him stumble even more over his own feet or Arthur's.

"I hate dancing," Alfred said, still addressing the ballroom sign itself, "My idea of dancing is just standing on one spot, nodding your head to the music. So, why don't you go on in and I'll just wait here until you're finished?"

Arthur held out his hand to him.

"Are you even listening?"

"Yes; but you're not. I said to hear me out," he said gently, "Just step inside, alright?"

Alfred let himself be almost literally dragged in. He began to formulate several escape routes (going to the bathroom, wanting to visit the gift-shop again) but stopped once inside.

The large ballroom was one of the most attractive interiors he had seen since arriving in Blackpool: it ended in a dramatic, high ceilinged stage with two balconies overlooking the dance floor. It was ornate, but had an excessive amount of gilt and coving that put him in mind of a woman past her prime wearing too much make-up. Still, the excessive decoration only seemed to make the room feel warm and, somehow, familiar.

Framed by two drawn red velvet curtains on the stage was an organist, facing away from the dance floor and playing what Alfred recognised as a waltz on the organ.

"A Wurlitzer," Arthur whispered, nodding towards the organ, "One of yours."

The real interest about the room was the people in it, though, Alfred realised. There were several couples dancing at that moment, though for the most part the floor was relatively quiet. Others watched from tables around the sides of the room, eating cake and sandwiches and drinking cups of tea. Some of the couples, he saw, were dressed for dancing and were clearly professional or at least highly capable, moving about the floor effortlessly, the skirts of the women flaring out behind them like sails buffeted by a breeze. These couples predicted their partner's steps without any visible effort. Others, indeed the majority, however, were dressed like themselves, having stepped straight off the street. A few just about knew the steps and a little clumsily were managing to keep pace with the music; a younger couple were not even managing that much, and kept stopping and laughing at each other, the woman ducking her head every so often in a delighted kind of embarrassment, her features aglow with a grin.

"Ask me how my dancing is these days," Arthur asked quietly at his side.

"How's your dancing?"

"Shocking," The Englishman took a step in front of him and held his hand out to Alfred, "How about it?"

The way he offered his hand was different to then, too. Rather than forceful and stiffly held, as though ready to strike him, the fingers were spread, the palm slightly cupped, ready to wrap about his own hand.

It was like when they had first met. Like when Alfred had stopped peering out from between the tall grasses and crops and dared to trust the rather lonely and awkward looking man roaming his lands with a perspiring face, a faulty compass and a sunburn on the bridge of his nose. He saw, both in the gesture and in Arthur's eyes, which he shot a fleeting look at, that same tender look. As he took Arthur's hand in his own, he remembered how carefully the man had held his hand then, and how he had considered in simple wonderment whether the stranger was being so very careful with him because he was capable of shattering.

Arthur dared to grip his hand tighter now, and Alfred smiled at that, looking at the intricate pattern on the floor before he stepped up to the plate, as it were, and grabbed a hold of Arthur's other hand, ready to dance.

"Um, what the hell are we meant to be doing?" Arthur said, letting Alfred guided one of his hands onto his shoulder. The American couldn't help a snort of laughter. He looked around them and spotted a skilful pair.

"Oh, okay. I think I have it. Follow me."

"Alright-whoops, sorry."

"It's okay. There-wait, no, the other foot-"

"This way?"

"Sort of. Ah hell," Alfred began to sway from side to side, keeping a hold of Arthur where his hands had eventually fallen, one hand on the man's waist, the other lacing fingers with Arthur's, "I give up doing it right. You?"

"This works for me," Arthur said genially.

They altered the speed of their shuffle and sway about the dance floor when the first song ended and another began, falling over each other a little bit more as they adjusted to the new tempo.

It brought a smile to Alfred's face as they slowly made their way about the dance floor, one that Arthur's treading on his toes couldn't shift. With the golden drag of the chandeliers' light catching on the lens of his glasses, he looked about himself, caught sight of the other couples and saw them smiling back, some looking surprised, others just glad to see another sharing in the moment. It was a smile of victory that was making his cheeks ache in a delicious way. It was a victorious smile because he realised now that he had been right all those years ago: dancing was something you did, for fun, with someone you liked.

"So you know," he almost didn't catch Arthur's softly spoken words when they came, half way through the second song, "This is me pulling out all the stops for you."

Alfred looked up, taking his eyes off the Wurlitzer to look into Arthur's face, which the man quickly averted.

"What?"

"This is me," Arthur said, just as softly, but with conviction, "Pulling out all the stops for you. I kept meaning to say something this week, but I've done a very good job of convincing myself to keep quiet. I don't much feel like seeing you off at the airport tomorrow, going home, locking the door and cursing myself up and down for a month, so, here it is," here his customary humour seemed to leave him, and Alfred found himself staring harder still at the man, in surprise more than anything, "This is me giving you the go-ahead; if you're bothered, that is. If you want... if you want to," uncertainly, it appeared, Arthur looked back at Alfred, his eyes holding an expression that seemed almost pained. A second later and the look was gone, replaced by an easy sort of smile, "Look – it doesn't matter," he tapped Alfred on the arm with one hand, "Come on, some OAPs just overtook us, put your mind back into the task man."

With an effort, Alfred pulled himself out of his own quagmire of thoughts, spurred on by his knowledge that while his own mind may have felt like molasses he was desperately trying to wade through, Arthur's emotions were more like a startled animal, already turning to slip away. The American forced himself to really study Arthur and then, no doubt shocking someone's dear old Gran, to lean forward and kiss him.

It wasn't like this was the first time they had kissed, so his knees didn't give way, nor did his heart give out or burst from joy. But there was no denying that the kiss was different: before, there had always been some reason. When they had both sensed his growing desire for independence, its overwhelming march of certainty toward them, there had been hard, furious, possessive kisses that had felt like they bruised. In the wars, there had been delicate, fearful kisses to bloodied brows and tear-and-sweat stained cheeks and lips, as the sky above them turned smoky and the world looked like it would surely end. And, of course, there had been plenty of drunken, sloppy kisses, excused and dismissed the next morning with a laugh or a gesture.

This kiss was different because it was just them, just stood there. Arthur, in the hazy light of the ballroom, was just a guy a little bit uncomfortable about the public display of affection but earnest as he reached out to cup Alfred's head in one hand and hold him as he kissed him, firmly.

The Englishman didn't taste of alcohol or tea or blood, Alfred realised as well. He tasted like he had brushed his teeth a little harder, a little longer, with a bit more toothpaste than usual, just in case.

As the song ended with one last faltering note on the organ, they stopped kissing and stepped apart. Arthur, to his surprise, remained silent, looking content and unflustered.

"Well. Quite," he said, unhelpfully.

"Truth?"

"What?"

"As in "Want to know the truth?"." Alfred explained, walking over to an empty tea table at the edge of the dance floor as the organ struck up another number.

Arthur began to look nervous.

"I'm really not sure I do, but go on."

"I saw a palm reader on the Mile yesterday. She told me there was someone special in my life, someone with dark eyes, eyes you have to look at."

Arthur continued to look at him expectantly then blinked, "Oh. Is that it?"

"Well yeah. Isn't it kind of, uncanny? With your eyebrows, I mean."

"It's kind of vague and could apply to just about anyone."

"It does apply to you though. I thought you believed in magic, anyway."

It was clear Arthur was weighing his options; a moment later, smiling, he went on, "I suppose I do. So I guess the woman's a marvel."

Alfred looked about at their surroundings, and, in particular, the attention they had gathered; there was a considerable amount of whispering in ears and uncertain looks being exchanged between couples, along with the occasional furtive glance at them both over the rims of tea cups.

"This isn't the place for this, is it?"

"Not really, no," Arthur agreed, "But we already gave the key back for the flat."

"We are not making out in your car. It hasn't got air-con."

To his amusement, Arthur turned a shade of red at the words "making out". Still, the Englishman smacked the table lightly with his fist in a decisive, military fashion, "Guess I'll have to use some cunning then."

"And by cunning you mean-"

"I'll pay Sue another fifty quid and get the room back for the afternoon. But not before I show you a little magic of my own."

**A/N for the confused or curious**

"**HP Sauce" –** A "legendary" condiment by its own admission. Particularly suited to breakfast fry ups but goes with just about everything (well, perhaps not with non-savoury foods but still). Rather bizarrely, "HP" stands for "Houses of Parliament".

"Blackpool Tower Ballroom" - To this day I'm really not sure whether the public are supposed to get up and dance in the ballroom, but that's certainly what always seems to happen.

**"Wurlitzer... One of yours" **- the traditional manufacture of the Ballroom organ. Arthur is referring to the fact that Wurlitzers are American.

**English/Arthur!Slang:**

"**Talking cobblers" –** Talking nonsense


	8. Chapter 8

**[APH] - Al and Artie do Blackpool Ch8 of 8 COMPLETE**

**5.02pm, "Top of the Tower"**

"The view's good from here," Alfred said, leaning forward. He held onto the wiring that enclosed the top of the tower and squinted down at the miniaturised town laid out below them. On the beach, tiny donkeys with lengthening shadows were walking well worn paths, the sands tingeing a pink grey as evening and rainclouds settled across the sky; cars slithered down the streets as though programmed to take certain routes. Arthur rejoined his side.

"Time for the magic then."

"Um, sure," Alfred pointed a finger at Arthur's Circus-bought wand, which the man was tapping against his side, "I don't think that works, just so you know."

"No? Close your eyes."

Alfred did so.

"You're peeking."

He closed them tighter and dragged one foot uncertainly about on the floor until he heard Arthur's voice, a little further away than before.

"Open them."

He followed Arthur's flourish of a gesture and looked back out and down onto the town once again. The change didn't register straight away, but, when it did, he let his baffled and amused smile take over his features unrestrainedly. Below them, the dusky town had been flooded with light: thousands of coloured lights, the Illuminations, had turned on. Many were fixed, but others flashed, danced, bathing the streets in a multi-coloured, heady glow. Leaning against the netting, he made out the shapes of angels and devils, lamps and party poppers. Looking even more closely he saw how the small figures of tourists on the Mile had paused to point and stare up at the lights.

"You said we wouldn't seem them turned on at this time of year. Why the change?"

Arthur put an arm about Alfred's waist and leant his weight against him. He shrugged with his other shoulder, "An apology for dragging you on a rubbish holiday? It's the pirate in me I think - I have a bit of a mean streak when it comes to getting punished. Also, I suppose I wanted to put a wider margin between this holiday and the 1992 World Conference on your list of crap holidays."

Alfred hooked his other arm over Arthur's far shoulder and pulled him up against him in what was almost a high-speed repetition of their earlier dancing. He kissed the Englishman with enough force to make him overbalance and reach out blindly to hook his fingers into the safety netting.

Arthur did something that came close to nuzzling Alfred's jaw after they pulled apart.

"I don't know about you," Alfred smiled, resting his forehead against Arthur's almost conspiratorially, "But it just moved a little higher up my list."

"I'm inclined to agree. Now let's get back to that B&B."

**6.16pm, B&B**

When they opened up their room again they found their suitcases, and the tiger, stacked onto the single bed, rather than in the B&B hallway where they had left them. Apparently, another holiday maker staying in the house had found it quite perilous, navigating their luggage in the cramped hallway, so the owner had placed them back in their empty room until they were ready to pack them into the Mini and head home.

Alfred had noticed the pensive look Arthur had initially shot their bags and suitcases upon unlocking their room; he imagined the man had had the same thought as himself, namely that it was almost as though they were at the beginning of their holiday again, ready to repeat the week blow by blow.

In an effort to distract either himself or the Englishman from the idea he locked the door behind them, dropped the keys onto a bedside table and led Arthur by the hand to the double bed.

"Come on then," Arthur said, "Show me what this "making out" business is all about."

Alfred shucked his jacket onto the floor and leant across the man with a smile, "Sure," a surprisingly strong, steadying hand held onto to his side to keep him from overbalancing on the lumpy mattress as he kissed Arthur, a smile still firmly on his lips as he did so.

Arthur was the one to pull back, his expression yet more puzzled.

"What's up?"

"I've always wondered," the man said, continuing to hold onto Alfred's side as the man hovered over him, "What all that "first base", "second base", "third base", "fourth base" business is about. I mean, I know it's a baseball analogy, but I've never quite-"

Alfred couldn't help a laugh, ducking his head as he got pinched on the arm for it, "Sorry! It's just, I don't know, I never thought I'd hear you say that."

"Well?"

Alfred knew what the prompt meant and answered with touch instead; he kissed Arthur's mouth, teasing his lips open, then pulled away and murmured, "First base."

"I see," The Englishman said, as though he had made a compelling point in a debate.

His hand strayed to cup Arthur's crotch; he could feel the beginnings of his arousal through the fabric of his trousers. Arthur's hand on his side gripped a little tighter.

"Kinda second base."

"Fair enough. Look, I'm sure you're a good baseball player – say you hit a good... whatever you call it – run? You run past third and slide into fourth," Arthur said, pulling a face in his effort to use the terminology correctly, "What's fourth base?"

"Well."

**6.22pm, B&B**

Oh er! What's happened here then?

Well, put simply this section is rather naughty and NC-17y and so it's not very FF friendly. Here's the link if you'd like to have a look at it:

.#cutid1

If not, simply know this: a great time was had by all, confessions of love were made and Arthur topped.

**6.37pm, B&B**

"Do you know what you said back then?"

"Yes," Arthur said simply. He stroked his fingers over the smooth skin of Alfred's bare stomach, "I said I love you. Should I take it back?"

"Only if it's not true."

"Are you taking the passenger seat or is the tiger, by the way?"

Alfred punched him in the arm, fairly firmly, "I'm being goddamn serious here."

"I know – but you said only to take it back if I didn't mean it; so, I didn't take it back. What more can I do?"

"Say it again," said Alfred, studying him hard, as though daring him. Arthur did the same in return. The American began to feel a little less loose limbed and sated as he sized up to the other man.

"You say it. I think you'll find you said it too," Arthur pointed out.

"You first."

"No, you. Or I throw you in the boot of the car and I play ABBA all the way back to London."

"Fine!" Alfred practically yelled, "I love you! Alright? I LOVE YOU, YOU ASSHOLE."

"AND I LOVE YOU TOO, YOU ARSEHOLE!" Arthur shouted back at him; the Englishman caught his mouth in a hard, joyous sort of kiss that was interrupted by a bubble of childish laughter from both men. Midway through the kiss, a timid knock sounded and voice called through the door:

"That's very lovely, but I do wish you'd keep your voices down."

Both turned, horror-struck, and stared sheepishly at the locked door. "Sorry," they mumbled in unison.

After footsteps had padded away back down the staircase, Alfred and Arthur turned to each other with amused but embarrassed looks etched on their faces.

"How long was she there?" Alfred whispered.

"Oh God, don't think about that. Don't ruin some perfectly good sex memories for me," Arthur said sadly. Alfred wrapped his arm about Arthur's waist and pulled him closer.

"Fine," as drowsiness overtook him again, he murmured to the Englishman, "Come back to my place."

Arthur looked up, frowning.

"What?"

"For another vacation. Come to my place; you said you're broke, so, come over to mine. We could get another ticket for my flight, easy."

The man's mood seemed to falter. He patted Alfred's shoulder almost apologetically.

"I love you," Arthur said, his tone that of utter certainty, "But I can't. I can't let myself rely on you. I just don't have it in me," his voice grew softer but no less assured, "We can't talk about this yet; I'm not sure if I ever can. I will come 'round to yours, I promise. But I'll do it with my cash, and I'll bring myugly PJs that I wish you wouldn't scowl at so much, and I'll do it because I can. I'm sorry-"

"It's okay. I kind of get it," Alfred said, forcing a smile, "So long as you don't go and get all angry and drunk and wind up at Francis' place again. Things need to change. Just slowly, maybe."

"Agreed," Arthur looked, happily and lazily, up at the ceiling, ""Just the place to bury a crock of gold. I should like to bury something precious in every place where I've been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.""

The Englishman seemed to sense, as opposed to see, Alfred's questioning look.

"Oh, I'm quoting. Waugh. I don't suppose a pot of gold buried in Blackpool would remain untouched or unstolen for more than ten minutes, though. I do have another crime-proof idea, however" he gave Alfred one last delicate kiss on the mouth, "But it requires clothing."

**7.04pm, B&B**

"Well, I hope you have a smooth run down to London. Is it back to America for you, as well?" the owner of the B&B asked pleasantly.

"Yeah, it is."

"Then I hope your flight is alright. The weather's been quite nice this week, hasn't it? You certainly picked the right week. Now, is it this button? The big black one?"

"Yeah," Alfred said again, "Just press and hold that one."

"Say "cheese" then."

There was really no chance of shocking the woman, after what she must have heard going on, or at least gathered was going on earlier. Alfred had made his peace with that. That being so, he saw no reason to sidestep the arm Arthur placed about his waist as she aimed the camera. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man giving the camera a genuine, affectionate, slightly lopsided smile. It made his own grin that much wider.

"Cheese."

The flash blinked, the "snap" of the camera taking the shot sounded and the bright dancing light of the flash remained, twinkling in his vision afterwards like the glare of the Illuminations.

"There," said Sue, "It's a lovely shot."

**7.16pm, B&B**

"Let me drive back to London."

"No."

"C'mon."

"No."

"After everything I've done for you."

"After everything you've-what, sorry, run that by me again?" Arthur raised an eyebrow at the American.

"Okay: after everything I did to you," Alfred said, leaning his elbows on the roof of the car and looking across at Arthur sweetly. The man looked as though he was tempted to duck his head down in his hands. Instead, his mouth merely gave an embarrassed twitch.

"Fine! Fine, if you really must," he threw the keys over the roof to Alfred, and they both circled the car to the opposite door. Alfred unlocked the driver's door then reached across the car interior to let Arthur in. The man sat down and watched Alfred pull his longer limbs inside the tiny car with difficulty, adjusting the seat, "But lord help us all. We drive on the left, remember."

"Thanks, I hadn't noticed," Alfred turned the key in the ignition and checked his mirrors (the back mirror view slightly obscured by the tiger's fluffy eyebrows). He was stopped from pulling away by Arthur's hand on top of his on the brake.

"What? Have we forgotten something?"

"No," Arthur shook his head, "I just wanted to say - I plan on digging under the sofa cushions for loose change and selling a few first editions on eBay when I get back to London."

"Um, okay?" Alfred gave him an uneasy look: it was hardly the best or sanest mood in which to start a four hour journey, he felt.

"I mean, so I can get the money together for a trip to yours."

His worry eased into a contented grin, "Yeah? Good. Though we should wait for fall. If you came over now you'd spend the whole time saying it's too hot, I know you."

Arthur seemed pleased by the latter half of his sentence, "I suppose. You do seem to live about five miles from the surface of the sun. Perhaps... Well, not to overdo it or anything, but if you're at a loose end-"

"Just get to the point," he smirked.

Arthur scowled, "Very well. You might like Whitby. It's on the opposite coast, and nothing like Blackpool," he added. At Alfred's thoughtful look, he said, "It sounds vaguely familiar because it's "Dracula Country". Where his ship docks in the book... or the movies. Right up your street."

"Cool. Yeah, we should do that. Check under the refrigerator too – for small change I mean. Stuff always winds up falling behind there."

He let the hand brake down and pulled out into the road, trying his best to ignore Arthur's gripping the handle of the passenger door as though he were back on "the Big One".

**10.21pm, Heathrow Airport, London**

That thing that Arthur has said, about the seaside making tensions rise seemed to apply to the man himself. Alfred was sure he was more relaxed back in his "front garden", as it were. He stood more at ease, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers and studying Alfred more openly, more (Alfred felt sure) lovingly, here in the cosmopolitan capital.

"So."

"Yeah," he hefted his rucksack a little better on his shoulder and gave the man a grin, "It was-"

"No it wasn't."

"No, really, it kind of was okay."

"Which bits?" Arthur's smile curled wryly at the edges, "Aside from the obvious."

"I don't know. I think it was more the whole effect, you know? Apart it's all kind of horrifying to think about but it worked, sticking all that stuff together in one place."

"Yes. Blackpool is a bit overwhelming. People seem to like it though."

"Las Vegas is the same: overwhelming, I mean. But it is not my Blackpool. You seriously lied when you invited me over."

"I can't bring myself to feel bad though," Arthur looked up at one of the airport lounge computer screens, "You'll need to go, you want to get to your gate good and early."

"It'll be fine," Alfred put down the rucksack so as to be able to properly wrap his arms about Arthur. The man seemed to rise up on his tiptoes, as though the American were squeezing him like a tube of toothpaste. A moment later and he settled himself, placing his own hands on the American's waistband, fingers toying with the belt loops of his jeans.

"They're calling your flight-"

"Yeah, I can read," Alfred cut off any knee-jerk slight the Englishman might feel inclined to come out with by catching his mouth in a kiss, opening his mouth to it and almost breathing out into Arthur, stealing a little of the man's breath when he inhaled again. Looking out from under his eyelashes, Alfred saw how firmly Arthur had his eyes clamped shut.

He found one of Arthur's hands, blindly, and gave it strong, firm grasp before pulling back, grabbing his rucksack and beginning to jog down the long lounge area near diagonally so he could look back and gave one final wave to the man.

"Later."

"Later."

As the man rounded a corner and disappeared from view, Arthur looked down at the crumpled cardboard Alfred had pushed into his hand. It was, he realised, a postcard of the Blackpool Tower, folded into quarters.

He unfolded it and studied the miniscule, sloping and rounded handwriting, crammed onto every bit of blank space on the back.

"Hey.

I don't know how to start this, so I thought I'd just get down to facts. I guess I am kind of like you in some ways. I really don't like talking about how I feel sometimes, or even writing about it. I don't know why. I guess it's like you leave yourself defenceless that way? If you never say anything, you can never be truly misunderstood, or understood. You're safe because no one will know what you really think about anything.

I can't see me (or you either) being like one of the Romance nations (I won't name the most obvious one because you'll just spit on this postcard and the ink will probably run so you can't read any further). We're never going to go around serenading people or weeping at how beautiful a sunset looks or whatever it is they do. But I don't want to look back and think "why didn't I say? I'm an idiot".

So here goes: I'm writing this in the bathroom. This morning (it's Thursday, fyi), I was awake when you were reading your book (sorry if your arm went totally dead btw). I woke up when you grabbed it, then I couldn't sleep again, so I pretended. And I just thought, really clearly (even though you called me a plonker) "I don't want to be anywhere else right now". I've run out of room to explain. I hope this makes sense. "

In a lighter shade of ink, in an even smaller hand, another line had been added along with an arrow indicating the text above it.

"I wrote this before the ballroom. I still kind of like it though.  
One last thing Arthur: promise not to pull away and I won't. I'll see you later.

P.S. Turn this over and look, properly."

He did so, and this time he spotted two small stick figures scribbled onto the street in front of the Tower, holding hands.

"Guess who?" the card dared him.

**9.55pm, Monday, London**

The following evening, Arthur heard a tinny little noise sounding out in his study. After some effort, involving pressing his ear to the room's various clocks and kicking the skirting board with his shoe to listen for the scurry of a mouse, he located the source of the noise: his slightly dusty computer.

Apparently, he was being "nudged" by "Alfred F." on some or other messenger software he typically ignored owning altogether. Alfred F., his computer told him, wanted to share webcams with Arthur Kirkland. Puzzled, Arthur accepted the request.

In the small square of picture, a crisp miniature Alfred, visible from the waist upward, was smiling, albeit it sleepily at him, in bright sunlight. He gave a wave.

From within a smaller, gloomier square under the picture, Arthur saw himself looking puzzled. Uncertainly, he gave his own screen a wave in return.

After a "hang on" hand gesture, Alfred disappeared off screen; he reappeared a moment later, one arm wrapped about the giant toy tiger which looked for some reason subtly different. As he held it up to the camera, Arthur recognised why: Alfred, presumably, had coloured in the shaggy white fur eyebrows with a marker pen. Now, the toy wore thick black brows that altered its expression from dazed to rather self-possessed, Arthur felt.

He couldn't help a little snort of laughter. Nor the blush that mantled his cheek when he saw Alfred give the toy a warm, loving hug for his benefit.

**The End**

**A/N for the confused or curious**

"**Oh, I'm quoting. Waugh." –** Arthur is quoting from the 1940s novel "Brideshead Revisited" by Evelyn Waugh. The novel centres upon the relationships protagonist Charles Ryder forms with members of the wealthy Marchmain family between the two World Wars. In particular, the novel looks at his relationships with the daughter Julia, and son, the doomed Sebastian. Arthur is quoting Sebastian who is arguably implied as secretly harbouring romantic feelings for Charles.


End file.
